


Save The Last Dance For Me

by 1Diamondinthesun



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Clothing Kink, Dancer Louis, Dancer Niall, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Rich Zayn Malik, for brief homophobia, kind of, rich!Marcel, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-02-09
Packaged: 2019-03-16 01:27:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 50,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13625655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1Diamondinthesun/pseuds/1Diamondinthesun
Summary: Wealthy Marcel Styles is an avid supporter of the Royal Ballet Company. Louis Tomlinson is the new principal dancer with a humble past and a dream. When they collide, sparks fly. But is it enough to overcome their different social classes and prove that love is all you need?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BriaMaria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BriaMaria/gifts).



> For BriaMaria, for the prompt: Marcel loves the ballet and the principal dancer at the company he is a patron of. No matter how many fundraising balls they attend together, though, Marcel can never get up the courage to actually talk to the beautiful man. Eventually Louis, who has been eyeing the shy guy who always comes to the parties, takes matters into his own hands.
> 
> How could I forget? This fic would not have come together without the help of my wonderful beta, britpickerhl. Thank you so much for your guidance, encouragement, and genius britpicking. Cheers, my dear! xx

I.

“I do not try to dance better than anyone else. I only try to dance better than myself.”

\--Mikhail Baryshnikov

 

It was a Debussy kind of night.  

Marcel studied his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking downtown London, which was glittering with lights that crisp autumn evening. On the busy streets below, Marcel knew there was the constant hum of traffic and noise. But up here, staring down at the sprawl of the city, there was quiet. Calm. Marcel could finally think.

He studied the grey pinstripe suit he had paired with a white shirt and bright purple and grey geometric tie. The tailoring around the collar, shoulders, and cuffs was exact. A quick glance at his polished black shoes confirmed everything was in order. Marcel had paired his suit with the black framed Gucci glasses that were his favorite. They were statement glasses, according to his best friend, Zayn, so Marcel had styled his dark hair neatly but minimally. He fiddled with his cufflinks for a moment, simple gold inscribed with his initials. No one would see them, but Marcel loved to wear them anyway. He smoothed long, delicate fingers down the lapels of his jacket, one last check to make sure everything was in place. He nodded at his reflection in the glass, then checked his watch for the time. The car would arrive in two minutes.

Marcel turned on a lamp on a side table as he turned to leave. He hated coming home to a dark apartment. He clicked a remote that silenced his sound system, where Debussy’s Jeux was playing. His eyes scanned the immaculate cream furniture, dotted with colorful throw pillows, and the piano that took up half the living space. The sleek black instrument was as polished and stylish as his shoes, and Marcel’s dearest possession. The sheet music on the piano stand was the oldest, perhaps shabbiest thing in the room. It had been his mother’s copy of Clair de Lune, and Marcel played it often.

Marcel’s steps echoed on the dark hardwood floors as he crossed to the front door of his chronically empty apartment. He shrugged on a soft black overcoat, and slipped his keys and phone in the pocket. With one last satisfactory nod at the tidy room, Marcel turned to leave.

Downstairs, he nodded at the porter, James, and braced himself to walk out into the chill November air. A black limo was idling at the curb, and Marcel crossed the sidewalk to climb in the backseat.

Inside the car, his senses were overpowered by the familiar blend of Bvlgari cologne and menthol cigarettes.

“About time,” quipped a voice in the darkness.

Marcel took a moment for his eyes to adjust, until he was able to make out the shape of his best friend, Zayn, reclined across the long backseat.

“Shush,” Marcel grinned, rolling his eyes. “I’m early.” He nodded to the driver to begin the route to their destination for the evening.

Zayn leaned forward, coming out of the shadows. A nearby street light illuminated the side of his face and glinted off the gold ring on his hand, where a cigarette dangled from his manicured fingers. As usual, Zayn was breathtakingly gorgeous. The streetlight caught the curve of his long eyelashes, casting a shadow on his sculpted cheekbone. His warm brown eyes blinked contemplatively at Marcel for a moment. Then, Zayn’s handsome face softened into a smile.

“Whatever you say, Clark Kent.” Zayn gestured towards Marcel’s glasses.

Used to his teasing, Marcel rolled his eyes. “Okay, Batman. Lurking in the darkest part of the car as usual. I think you like the way the shadows complement your mysterious persona, here.”

Zayn shrugged easily, blowing a steady stream of smoke out of his mouth. “Whatever. Batman’s the best anyway. Everyone knows that.”

Marcel’s jaw dropped. “He doesn’t have any powers! He’s just a rich guy with cool gadgets.”

Zayn grinned in response, spreading his arms appreciatively. “Works for me.”

Marcel sighed dramatically and rested his head against the soft headrest for a moment.

“Long day?” Zayn guessed, nudging Marcel’s trouser leg with his shoe.

“The longest,” Marcel murmured, letting his eyes slide closed for a moment.

“Well, we can always cancel this and go to dinner instead,” Zayn trailed off in a teasing tone.

Marcel’s eyes snapped open as if on cue. He turned his head to face Zayn, who was smiling innocently.

“But it’s _Marguerite and Armand!”_ Marcel protested, wide-eyed.

“Exactly. And who the hell are they, anyway?” Zayn sighed.

“I sent you the history and plot summary today! Didn’t you check your email?”

“Sorry, Marce. I was busy.”

“Busy?” Marcel said in disbelief. “Scouting for your next tropical holiday does not constitute “busy”.

“Ha ha,” Zayn deadpanned, examining his nails distractedly. “And what were you doing all day? Buying more sheet music for _Les Miserables?”_

“Please,” Marcel scoffed, leveling Zayn with a withering look. “One of us still has our book from Miss Simone’s piano lessons.”

“That was fifteen years ago, for fuck’s sake!” Zayn exclaimed, bored expression finally animated.

“Oh, thought you’d forgotten,” Marcel teased. “Apologies.”

Zayn rolled his eyes and relaxed back in his seat. “Sure. Whatever you say, teacher’s pet.” His eyes were closed, but a wide grin spread across Zayn’s face.

Marcel huffed and narrowed his eyes. He placed a neat kick against Zayn’s shin. “Jealous.”

Zayn snickered in the dark car as they neared their destination. There was comfortable silence for a moment as Marcel checked his watch, and Zayn exhaled the last of his cigarette and crushed it in a nearby ashtray.

When the car slowed to a stop, Marcel’s heart beat a little faster. Outside his window, the familiar sight of the Royal Opera House stood out against the night sky. Marcel smiled.

“Remind me why I go with you to these things?” Zayn asked, just before he stepped out of the car.

Marcel shook his head fondly. “Because we’re carrying on a proud tradition supporting the arts…and because you love me.”

Zayn’s lips turned up in a lopsided smile. He wordlessly held up his forefinger and thumb in a gesture of just how little that love was. Then he followed Marcel out of the car and up to the opera house doors.

Together, Marcel and Zayn showed their tickets and were ushered inside the bright lobby, where other excited patrons were milling around. The two checked their coats and then made their way to the stairs that would take them to their box.

Marcel tripped a little on the stairs in his excitement. He had been waiting for this performance all week, after all. Zayn steadied a hand on his back as they ascended the stairs. At the entrance leading to their box, an usher handed them two programs and nodded primly. All that was left now was to take their seats.

Marcel walked a little more carefully now as he slid onto the deep red upholstered seat designated for him. As Zayn settled in beside him and began flipping through the program, Marcel took in the welcoming sight of the opera house.

Looking up, he glimpsed the domed ceiling with its elaborate lighting. The lighting throughout the Royal Opera House was all beautiful, though. Chandeliers with red lampshades adorned each tier of the opera house, and most of the red seats below were already occupied. The full orchestra occupied the pit below, and further ahead, an embroidered red curtain separated the audience from the preparations going on backstage.

Marcel had a dream to one day stand backstage before the curtain lifted, just to see what actually happened. But the mystery of it all was part of the experience, Marcel supposed. As the orchestra warmed up below, Marcel took a deep breath and let it out contently. For the first time all day, he was exactly where he wanted to be.

The lights dimmed in warning, and the patrons still milling around in the aisles took their seats. The orchestra slowly stopped their warmup, and a hush fell over the crowd. When the lights went down, Marcel couldn’t stop the wide smile from spreading across his face.

First, a recorded announcement urged everyone to silence their phones. Then, Marcel heard rather than saw the conductor tap his baton against his music stand to call the orchestra to order. There was a short pause, and then the opera house was filled with the sound of the overture. The heavy red curtain opened to a brightly lit stage. And Marcel got his first glimpse of the evening of the Royal Ballet Company.

The opening scenes featured a party where the characters Marguerite and Armand first met. Marcel lost track of time as the corps of the ballet danced in spellbinding unison. He sighed in contentment as the principal, playing Marguerite, twirled and teased Armand.

Marcel was familiar with the principal ballerina, Sara Rose, from previous performances. Her _Swan Lake_ pas de deux was life-changing for Marcel. However, the male principal Marcel had only seen once before, in the last ballet the company did. Marcel remembered now, watching the athletic young man onstage, how impressed he had been by the dancer’s fluidity of movement. In Marcel’s experience, many male ballet dancers had dynamic yet abrupt movements. But Marcel was transfixed, as he had been last time, by the grace and power the man seemed to possess in equal parts.

When it was time for the couple’s pas de deux, Marcel forgot to breathe for a moment. The principal male dancer seemed utterly weightless as he moved across the stage. There was no other word for it, Marcel realized.

“Weightless,” he breathed, unaware it was spoken aloud.

Zayn turned subtly to face Marcel from where he had been flipping through the program. “Hmm?”

“Look at the way he moves,” Marcel mused under his breath, eyes never wavering from the dancer. “Like the ocean waves. Like a dream. Like gravity can’t hold him back.”

Zayn raised his eyebrows and followed Marcel’s line of sight to the man onstage. The principal playing Armand was lifting his Marguerite into the air, making it look effortless. In the next moment, he was matching her footwork as they traversed across the stage together, moving as one. As the dance came to its close, the dancers sank to the floor in a lover’s embrace.

“What did you say happens in the end?” Zayn whispered, curiosity finally piqued.

Marcel leaned closer to Zayn’s ear. “It’s an homage to _La Traviata,_ remember?”

Zayn thought for a moment. “Shit!” he whispered. “Does that mean she dies?”

Marcel, eyes still glued to the stage, smiled wryly. “Wait and see.”

“He is really good,” Zayn whispered after a long silence.

“Hmm?” Marcel asked, still spellbound.

“The dancer. I said, he’s really good.”

“Yeah,” Marcel whispered back, finally glancing at Zayn. “I mean, he’s still new. But I’d say he’s better than Philip was, yes.”

“I’ll say. ‘Like the ocean waves,’ Marcel? Really?”

Marcel blushed, and was grateful for the dim lighting.

“I didn’t say that.”

“Like hell. See, I pay attention when you talk,” Zayn said, elbowing Marcel in the ribs.

“Good. Now pay attention to the ballet,” Marcel said, elbowing him back.

“You should talk to him,” Zayn ventured a few moments later.

“To the principal? Right,” Marcel scoffed. “And say…what, exactly?”

“Say, ‘I’d like to see you defy gravity like that in my bed,’” Zayn quipped, wiggling his eyebrows.

Marcel sighed and hung his head. “That literally makes no sense.”

“Love makes no sense, babe,” Zayn said sagely, shrugging.

“I’m not in love. I’m just…impressed,” Marcel countered back. He turned resolutely back to face the stage, conversation clearly over.

Zayn sighed and dropped the subject, but not before sneaking another look at the cast list. It was difficult to see in the dim lighting, but Zayn could just barely make out the name of the new principal dancer. He smiled as he turned his attention back to the stage.

“Hello, Louis,” he muttered under his breath, watching the young man conclude his pas de deux onstage.

Marcel smiled, oblivious, as the dancer ended the scene with a graceful pose. If he felt a little lighter for the rest of the night, as if he was the one floating across the stage, Marcel figured he was just inspired.

*

The studio was sweltering hot. Louis swiped his sweaty fringe off his forehead distractedly, and rested his hand back on the barre. The guest instructor, Olga, a woman with a steel-grey bob haircut and a black tracksuit, was leading the class through barre work.

 _First position. Plie. Rise slowly. Plie. Remember your turn-out, Sara—good._ Olga called out each position and movement as the pianist played an adagio.

Objectively, Louis knew the studio wasn’t hot. In fact, the Royal Ballet kept the studio quite chilly. But he felt restless and hot, as if everyone’s eyes were on him. Louis resisted the urge to glance around at his fellow dancers to see if he caught anyone’s eye. He knew it was more important to focus. The barre warm up was simple at a glance, but it had always been the most technically challenging, and Louis’ favorite part of class. There was something grounding about the barre, no matter which studio Louis danced in. Sometimes it hit Louis that he was warming up with the Royal Ballet Company, and it felt surreal. He was a long way from Miss Beverly’s studio back in Doncaster.

_Plie. Rise slowly. Plie._

Louis focused on his turn-out as well, not wanting to be called out by Olga next. Though she was a company favorite when it came to guest instructors, she was tough. And she knew every dancer’s name, all the better to call one out if he or she was slacking.

Louis was not a slacker.

He felt a bead of sweat trickle down his back under his black hoodie and bit his lip in concentration. Lately, fatigue had been catching up to Louis, causing his arms to droop a little at the barre. Being the newest principal at the Royal Ballet, and meeting a whole new company of dancers and instructors was mentally and physically exhausting. But he knew that was no excuse.

Louis watched his hand that wasn’t resting lightly on the barre as it moved across his plane of vision until it was out to his side. He lifted not from merely his arm, but his back to complete the motion. By the end of class, his arms would feel like they weighed a ton, but it would be worth it. It had been worth it every day in rehearsals as a corps dancer, and when he auditioned for the principal role, and it had been worth it last night to dance as Armand in a company performance.

As Olga led the class to face the barre for releve warmups, Louis assessed his reflection in the mirror he was now facing. Sharp blue eyes, which Louis had always thought were too small; high cheekbones and smooth, tan skin. Thin lips, currently bitten red from concentration. Brown hair spiked with sweat falling into his face. A soft black Royal Ballet hoodie and thick black tights with white leg warmers and white ballet shoes. And overall, an exhausted but determined expression. Louis stood in first position, feet turned out to the point his calf muscles screamed, and waited for the music to begin.

The pianist began to play another adagio, and the class began releves in unison. _Up, and hold. Down slowly. Don’t rock back on your heels, Jason._ Olga was walking behind the row of dancers, critiquing their footwork and posture. Louis counted releves in his head, knowing when he got to sixteen that Olga would instruct them in another exercise, and then another. His body was sore from last night’s performance, and the 10:30 class time wasn’t doing Louis any favors.

He was shaken out of his thoughts by a delicate hand landing on top of his on the barre. Louis looked up in alarm to find Olga wordlessly requesting him to loosen his grip on the barre. Louis didn’t blush often, but he felt his cheeks heat up in embarrassment for falling back to a habit he’d had as a child. Over the years, he had perfected the light touch a dancer needed to maintain on the barre. Louis clenched his jaw as he corrected his grip on the barre. So it was going to be one of those days.

After barre warmup, Olga instructed the dancers to come center to practice combinations. Louis shrugged out of his hoodie and leg warmers, leaving him in tights and a plain white tee. He listened carefully as Olga called out the steps for the first combination.

 _Jete. Jete. Arabesque and hold. Pas de bourree. Prepare, pirouette. Finish._ Simple enough, but Louis knew every step must be executed with precision. He joined the first group in the center and prepared for the combination. This time, Louis knew there were eyes on him. But a funny thing happened whenever Louis was under pressure: he always rose to the challenge. As the music began, Louis took a deep breath and stood in fifth position. He exuded confidence, but also grace as his feet began to move.

Louis tried not to watch his fellow dancers as he traversed across the floor. He tuned them out, until all he could hear was the piano playing and his own heartbeat. As if from far away, Olga’s voice came to Louis calling out each step in rhythm with the music. Louis prepared for the pirouette by spotting a point directly ahead of him. As his body turned, his head whipped around to spot that same point again. He landed in fifth position, as he had started, and took a deep breath.

Not bad.

Louis was a professional now, a long way from the shy thirteen year old boy standing in the back of dance class praying not to be called out. But still, even now, Louis glanced at Olga for a reaction. Her hawk-like expression softened for a moment when she met his eyes, and she offered a barely perceptible nod.

Louis felt a bit of tension leave his body when that happened. He cleared off the floor with the rest of the dancers to make way for the next group. This time, Louis appraised the dancers’ footwork and posture. Moments like these always reminded Louis of the athleticism and attention to detail needed for ballet. He watched Sara Rose stretch into an arabesque, noting the extension of her limbs. She found a way to make each movement graceful, and Louis knew he could learn from her.

When the other groups had all had a turn, Olga gestured for any last dancers to try the combination again. This was something Louis always jumped at the chance to do. Yes, his muscles were burning and his shoulders aching, but every little bit of practice helped. He could rest later; now, however, it was time to work.

By the end of class, the other dancers were wilting a little, skin shining with sweat. Louis was tempted to pack up and leave, more than ready for lunch now, but he stayed behind at the barre. He waved some fellow dancers off, joking a little with them as they prepared to leave. The class cleared out quickly, and soon there was only Louis, while Olga chatted with the pianist who was packing up his sheet music. With the class emptied out, quiet at last, Louis could finally think.

Standing at the now-deserted barre, Louis carefully rolled first one ankle, then the other. He rolled his head around in a slow circle, relieving some of the built-up pressure in his shoulders. He took a slow breath in, and let it out. Then Louis arranged his feet into first position and prepared to plie.

A voice interrupted his movements.

“Goodness, Louis, surely you’d like a break?” Olga had crossed the floor to stand next to Louis at the barre.

Louis smiled ruefully down at his feet. “In a few minutes. I just…want to know I’ve got this right.”

“Plies?” Olga asked with raised brows.

“This…in general,” Louis said, meeting her eyes, and then looking all around the empty studio.

“Hmm,” Olga mused. “You know, Louis, all dancers doubt themselves at times. But, as you know, ‘Success is not final; failure is not fatal. It is the courage to continue that counts.’”

“Margot Fonteyn?” Louis guessed, unfamiliar with the quote.

“Winston Churchill,” Olga corrected with a chuckle. “A pain in the ass, but he had a way with words.”

Louis grinned despite his exhaustion. “Noted.”

“So what is holding you back today, Louis?” Olga asked.

Louis sighed and looked at his feet. Then he slowly met the instructor’s gaze.

“I, um. Worked really hard to get where I am, ma’am. And it’s just…overwhelming sometimes. Being here.”

“You’ve achieved a dream,” Olga inferred.

“Yes. And now, I just…I don’t want to settle. I want to keep striving for something,” Louis confessed.

“Then strive to be yourself,” Olga suggested with a contemplative smile. “Many people spend their whole lives trying to be someone else. But to be yourself, Louis—that’s success.”

“I’m just a northern kid from a small town, ma’am,” Louis quipped with a wry smile.

“And I’m just a girl from a war-torn country, Louis. But look how far we’ve come.”

Louis felt a grin stretch across his face. “You’re right.”

“It happens from time to time,” Olga said with a conspiratorial wink. “Now, would you like to show me what you’re working on?”

“I don’t want to take up more of your time, ma’am,” Louis began. But Olga waved off his concerns.

“Time spent dancing is never wasted,” she said with a smile.

“Winston Churchill?” Louis guessed with raised brows.

“Olga Kostritzky,” she retorted with a small bow. “Now, let’s see what you’ve got.”

Louis grinned and nodded, then positioned his feet in first position for another plie. This time, the smile did not leave his face.

*

What could Louis say about Royal Ballet galas? He supposed they were meant to be exciting, a place to see and be seen by London’s who’s who. On a more practical note, they were also great places for networking for enterprising young dancers like Louis. But there seemed to be something missing from the experience that left Louis feeling like he was the odd man out. No matter how many fellow dancers and ballet donors he chatted with, whenever Louis looked out across the crowd, he felt alone. If he was being honest, he felt like he didn’t belong. No matter how many suits and crisp, tailored shirts he wore, deep down Louis was still the anxious kid working the graveyard shift at the local diner.

Now, Louis stood in front of a full-length mirror in the apartment he shared with his best friend, Liam. Liam, who was currently perched on the end of Louis’ bed, helping him choose a tie. God, Louis hated ties. The very idea was pretentious, an enormous waste of time. And not like Louis had many ties to choose from; although his Royal Ballet salary was decent, it didn’t lend itself to shopping sprees. Essentially, there was a navy tie and a black tie. That was it.

“I mean,” Liam began, narrowing his eyes in thought. “The suit is navy, right—“

“Dark blue,” Louis corrected with a slight frown.

“Navy,” Liam continued, as if he was never interrupted. “So I’m guessing it’ll be the navy tie. Unless you want to borrow one of mine.”

Louis winced at the thought of going out in one of Liam’s proper businessman ties.

“I saw that,” Liam said, but he was smiling.

“Sorry, Li. I just…I hate these things,” Louis sighed, dropping his hands still holding the ties.

“I know, babe. But you have to go,” Liam replied apologetically. “Maybe it’ll be fun?”

Louis leveled Liam with a doubtful gaze.

“Right. Well, if it’s not fun, at least you can pitch your project idea to some of the donors. You said you haven’t met them all,” Liam reminded him.

Louis nodded dejectedly down at his feet. “True.”

“Surely someone will be inspired by your plans and want to help,” Liam said.

“It hasn’t happened yet,” Louis said glumly, shuffling over to sit beside Liam on the soft duvet on his bed.

“I have faith in you, Lou,” Liam said, patting Louis on the leg. “Don’t give up.”

“I won’t. I just…another evening listening to pretentious old people talking about their summer homes in France? Why, Liam?”

“Because,” Liam said patiently. “Let’s face it, Lou, you won’t be 25 forever. One day, you’ll have to retire, and when you do, you’ll have a wonderful studio full of deserving kids waiting to learn from the best.”

“Studio, yes,” Louis nodded with a small smile. “Kids. Good.”

“All you have to do is snag the right donor to support your dream,” Liam concluded. “Now, get out there and wow them with your charm and wit.”

“Give ‘em the old razzle dazzle?” Louis asked with a grin.

“Razzle dazzle ‘em,” Liam confirmed with an answering smile.

Louis took a deep breath, then stood and walked back to the mirror. “So…navy tie?”

*

Champagne can only get you so far. Louis knew this well. He stared listlessly down at his glass, watching the bubbles fizz, and pondered how he had gotten to this point in his life. The point where he was standing in a circle of London socialites, trying to keep up with the conversation. Right now, an elderly man with a star-spangled tie was talking about taxes on his home. His _summer_ home.

“…so I told my accountant that I would have to cut back on some donations this year,” the man, whom Louis believed to be named James, concluded.

Louis plastered a smile on his face and listened politely, silently counting all the things he could be watching on Netflix right now. _Stranger Things. Criminal Minds. 90s romantic comedies_. James must have mistook Louis’ expression for alarm, for he hastily added,

“But, of course, we’re not reducing our donations here. The Royal Ballet has brought us so much joy these thirty years.”

“Thank you, sir, that’s very generous,” Louis replied with a slightly more genuine smile. The truth was, the company and Louis alike depended on the donations of people like James. And his future plans, especially depended on help from these very donors. So Louis feigned interest in the conversation.

“…happy to do it, of course,” James added. “Especially for dancers so talented, like you.”

Louis grinned and ducked his head. “Thank you, sir.”

James patted Louis on the shoulder. “Thank _you_. Now,” he replied, a grin overtaking his round face. “Surely a handsome young man like yourself has a young lady friend,” James said, wiggling his eyebrows. At this, the rest of the group encircling Louis paused to catch his reaction.

“I, um…” Louis trailed off, conscious of everyone’s eyes on him.

“Or, perhaps, you’d like a recommendation? Have you met my granddaughter, Susan? I think she’s around here somewhere…”

Louis’ eyes widened in alarm. “Oh, thank you sir, for the offer, but I actually have someone in mind,” Louis fibbed. His eyes frantically scanned the room, looking for one of his fellow dancers to pin their attention on. He could say he was dating Sara Rose; James would never know the difference. And it might bring more publicity to the company, which could be good. They must have taken Louis’ hesitation for secrecy, because the women exchanged sly glances.

“Ohh, a secret, then?” one of the elderly ladies remarked, eyes sparkling with intrigue. “How romantic!”

Louis bit his lip and nodded. Yes, a secret romance. With a woman. Why not? While Louis was openly out among his friends, family, and fellow dancers, it really wasn’t any of these donors’ business. So Louis just smiled, sighing slightly, and shrugged as if to say, “sorry, my lips are sealed.”

James turned towards one of the other donors in the group and struck up a conversation about investments, and Louis relaxed a bit as his mind wandered. He looked out across the crowd, dressed to the nines for the gala, and felt utterly alone. His eyes glazed over sparkling ball gowns and cocktail dresses, impeccable suits, and shoes that cost more than Louis’ last wage packet. Eventually, his gaze landed on a new face. Louis raised his eyebrows and took a sip of his drink as he appraised the man. He had thought he knew every face at these galas, but he was wrong.

Louis had never seen him before; that much he knew. He would remember this man. He was taller than Louis, and slender, with an obviously tailored suit. Just like all the other donors, and yet this man stood out. He wore thick black framed glasses, and his dark hair was tamed back in a sleek cut. He was standing with a small group of men at the bar, listening intently to their conversation.

Louis tuned out the conversation around him—something about stocks?—and the orchestral music playing over the speakers. His full focus narrowed to the man across the room. Louis watched as someone handed him a cocktail, and the man nodded politely and smiled. Even across the room, Louis was struck by the green of his eyes behind the glasses. As Louis watched, the man took a small sip of the drink—and promptly grimaced. His eyes widened in surprise, and he bit his full bottom lip in displeasure. He subtly looked around for a place to drop the offending cocktail, to Louis’ amusement.

Louis chuckled under his breath, and watched as the man gingerly placed the drink behind him on the bar. Then he turned back toward his group as if nothing had happened. His eyes scanned the room, as if to see if anyone had witnessed that moment. And that’s when his eyes met Louis’.

Louis forgot how to breathe.

Some of the most important people in London were in that room, and Louis had talked to many of them. He had been the focus of many wealthy people’s inquiring stares. And he had faced down every competition in the dance studio with fierce determination. But this—having this man appraising him—took Louis’ breath away.

He wasn’t just being looked at. He was being _seen_.

And by the looks of it, the man realized that he had just been seen, too. Someone had indeed witnessed the gross cocktail moment. They were both caught. Louis watched in fascination as color bloomed in the man’s winter white cheeks. He blinked in awe for a moment, frozen. Louis felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth, and he tried to reassure the man that everything was ok.

To Louis’ dismay, the man snapped back to reality, shook his head slightly, and cast one more look at Louis before turning back to his group. Louis stood there a moment longer, hoping the man would turn back around, but he waited in vain. The man didn’t turn back around.

Louis sighed and subtly tuned back into the conversation happening around him. Someone’s holiday to the Caribbean, it sounded like. He took a long sip of his champagne and resigned himself to another gala evening of dinner and dancing, without the intriguing man. It was going to be a long night.

*

Marcel had had some pretty embarrassing moments in his life. They kind of defined his entire existence. So it was no surprise that someone caught him making the worst possible face after tasting that scotch. But why— _why_ —did it have to be him? The dancer. The _principal_ dancer. Of all the people Marcel could lock eyes with, it had to be the most beautiful man Marcel had ever seen.

And Marcel was, well. Marcel was who he was. He had made peace with that long ago. He was proud of who he was and what he had accomplished so far. And yet, the look on that man’s face would haunt him for the rest of his sad, lonely life. Those eyes glinting with mirth. That perfect, slim figure. And that smile—that amused, curious gaze, as if he wanted to talk to Marcel.

As if.

Marcel groaned in the darkness and quiet of his bedroom. He buried his face in a fluffy, white pillow and whined pitifully. Why would one of the most graceful, lovely people on this island want to talk to someone like Marcel?

Without his glasses, Marcel couldn’t see anyway, but he still squinted his eyes closed in embarrassment. It was just too much.

Because Marcel couldn’t get that smile out of his head. Even when he closed his eyes, it was there. There had been a moment standing there at the gala, when they locked eyes, that Marcel let his imagination get away from him. He pictured smiling back at the man, striding across the room, and striking up a conversation. Marcel even knew what he’d say.

“What—you’ve never tasted a terrible cocktail?” he would joke in greeting.

The man would smile and shrug. “Who hasn’t?” he would reply. “But since it was so terrible, how about I get you a good one?”

Marcel would grin and nod, and they’d walk together towards the bar. Then, they’d introduce themselves over a tasty cocktail. Maybe they’d discover they had a lot in common. Maybe the man would give Marcel his phone number.

“Noooo,” Marcel grumbled to his ceiling in defeat. Enough of that. What was the point in wishful thinking? Where had it ever gotten him before? So Marcel had taken one last look at the man from across the room, and then reluctantly turned away. No use daydreaming about things that would never happen. Marcel sighed and let his head thump back against his pillow and tried to think of something, anything but the dancer. It was going to be a long night.

*

Marcel minimized the page he was scanning on his computer and leaned back in his office chair. It squeaked a little; he should really get that looked at soon. He wearily pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, trying to soothe the eyestrain he was developing that morning.

God, it was only 10:30 am.

Marcel slid his glasses back into place—today he had chosen the tortoise shell ones to match his sweater—and looked restlessly around his office. Everything was in order. His eyes scanned the bookshelves lined with a mixture of novels, business textbooks, and photography books, lined up with the edge of each shelf with precision. Marcel turned his gaze to the few photos and diplomas hanging on the walls, satisfied that they were straight and dust-free. Finally, his eyes landed back to his desk. It was old, but beautiful—Zayn joked he had found it on the side of the road due to its initial shabbiness. But all it had taken was a good cleaning, sanding, and re-staining. Now, it gleamed in the light of Marcel’s office. Everyone who stopped by remarked that it had character, and Marcel agreed.

On the desk sat one framed photo of a young Marcel sitting beside his mother on a piano bench. The photo was a little faded, but Marcel cherished it. In the picture, Anne was turned with her profile facing Marcel, and she was smiling. Her graceful hands were guiding his own on the piano keys. Marcel had only been five, but he remembered the song she was teaching him. It was “Heart and Soul.” As he got older, the music became more classical and more difficult, but this would always be Marcel’s favorite duet. He was so grateful someone had captured that moment in time, so that years after Anne’s passing, he could still look back on happier times.

The rest of the desk was occupied by a sleek Mac computer that Marcel had secretly named Barb. His fingers itched towards the mouse in order to reopen the page he had been visiting a moment earlier, but he resisted.

It’s not like Marcel was doing anything wrong.

He simply had a few minutes of free time (okay, a whole morning), and eventually found his way to the Royal Ballet company website. Totally innocently, he was just looking for the announcement of the next ballet. Well, mostly innocently. That’s how it had started. One thing led to another, though, and Marcel ended up clicking a link to the dancers’ profiles. And then he saw him. The principal dancer. The man who had witnessed an embarrassing moment of Marcel’s and then had the nerve to grin at him.

His name was Louis. Louis Tomlinson. Marcel sighed as he read the man’s biography on the screen. Even his name was beautiful.

Marcel read about Louis’ northern upbringing, his dance career, and future aspirations. With every word Marcel read, he was more intrigued by Louis. (Was it pronounced Lewis or Louie? Marcel was desperate to know.)

Armed with this new information, Marcel simply typed the name “Louis Tomlinson” into google. You know, just to see. Maybe he was on Facebook? Maybe he had a criminal record? Marcel felt a little guilty cyber-stalking Louis, but the curiosity was killing him. Besides, Marcel wanted to know what he was getting himself into with this…fascination? Intrigue? He refused to call it a crush. Marcel wasn’t 14 anymore, pining over the football captain. He was an adult.

There were 10 Louis Tomlinsons on Facebook. One on BeenVerified.com, whatever that was. There was one on LinkedIn. Marcel bit his lip, then clicked on google images.

Bad idea.

Dozens of photos came up, of Louis dancing through his time in different ballet companies. There was even a picture of Louis in the last Royal Ballet production, where he danced the part of Armand. Up close, Marcel could see every line of Louis’ body, every muscle, from the top of his head to his graceful fingertips. And the ballet tights he was wearing didn’t leave much to the imagination. Marcel blushed when he realized he was staring, and promptly returned to the original search results. He looked around the office lobby to see if anyone had caught him ogling Louis in tights.

Eventually, the guilt got to Marcel, and he minimized the window on his computer. Now, though, five minutes later, he had an idea. Maybe there were YouTube videos of Louis dancing with the company?

Ten minutes into a video stream of World Ballet Day 2017, a knock at the door scared Marcel nearly out of his chair.

He heard a familiar chuckle, and looked up to see Zayn leaning against the doorframe, an amused look on his face.

“Watching porn in the office, Marce? What have I told you about that?”

Marcel blushed an even deeper red and rolled his eyes. “Wasn’t porn. Obviously.”

Zayn tilted his head in contemplation, then stepped into the office. He sank artfully down into the chair facing Marcel’s desk and fixed Marcel with a curious gaze.

“Okay, spill.”

“There’s nothing to spill. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Marcel replied, primly adjusting his glasses.

“Mhm. You’re just blushing watching another episode of Planet Earth, then,” Zayn deadpanned.

Marcel huffed and glared at his best friend. “Let’s not bring David Attenborough into this again.”

Zayn arranged his fingers in a steeple position and grinned. “Oh, let’s. Talk nature to me.”

Marcel let his head thump back against his chair in exasperation. “Never again.”

“So…” Zayn trailed off, raising his eyebrows. “What were you really doing? We both know you’re going to spill it eventually.”

Marcel frowned. “Heyyy. Maybe it’s a secret. Maybe I’ll never tell.”

Zayn shook his head fondly. “Right. So, I ask again—what were you doing?”

Marcel slumped in his chair and averted his gaze. “Iwasresearchingthedancer,” he mumbled.

“You were what?”

“I was researching the dancer. From the ballet the other night?” Marcel sighed in defeat.

Understanding bloomed across Zayn’s face, and he grinned. “The weightless one?”

Marcel buried his face in his hands. “Zayn.”

“The one you couldn’t stop raving about the whole night?” Zayn continued gleefully.

“I wasn’t raving, Zayn,” Marcel said resignedly. “I was just impressed.”

“So impressed that you were secretly googling him?”

Marcel groaned and rested his forehead on his desk. “Oh my god. I’m a stalker.”

Zayn chuckled. “Nah, babe, you’re not. You’re just curious. And slightly infatuated.”

Marcel peered up at Zayn. “This is so embarrassing.”

“Why?”

“Zayn…look at him. And then look at me.”

“I’m not following, Marce.”

“He’s literally the most graceful man in London. And I’m an ogre,” Marcel lamented.

“What?” Zayn frowned, leaning forward. “No, you’re not.”

“I’m a walking disaster. Embarrassment is my way of life. I’m a mess.”

“Marcel,” Zayn said, suddenly serious. “Listen. You’re young and successful—any guy would be charmed to go out with you. And you’re a handsome guy. Very stylish. You have your shit together, Marcel. You’re a catch.”

Marcel slowly sat up, straightening his slightly askew glasses. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Zayn concluded. “Now, tell me more about this dancer. Lewis, right?”

“Louis. Like, Louie, with an ‘e’,” Marcel corrected a little sheepishly.

“Okay,” Zayn sighed fondly. “I might need a drink for this. You up for lunch?”

*

Marcel hasn’t had a crush this big since he was 14. Not that he’s counting. His lab partner in Mr. White’s chemistry class was Adam, the football team captain. And he was just. Lovely. From the way his blonde fringe fell across his face when he was taking notes, to the curve of his lips as he smirked at the giggling cheerleaders in class, to his chocolate brown eyes, he was breathtaking to Marcel.

Adam thought his name was Mark.

That should sum up their relationship quite well. While Marcel pined and counted Adam’s freckles on his cheeks during class, Adam was oblivious.

It wasn’t as if they didn’t talk; Adam regularly said “hey” in greeting when he slid into his seat in class. And of course they had to communicate when the teacher assigned an experiment. And there was that one time that Adam stared intently into Marcel’s eyes and asked to borrow a pencil.

Marcel was smitten.

Every day, as he dressed for school, Marcel would practice what he would say to Adam. Looking at his reflection in his bedroom mirror, Marcel would propose different scenarios. Maybe Adam would ask for another pencil, and then Marcel could say, “Sure, no problem.” Or Adam would come into class late and ask Marcel to share his notes, and Marcel would smile and slide his notebook across the desk. Adam would be impressed with his great note taking and neat handwriting. And then…

And then, Marcel had no idea. It’s not like he had ever successfully talked to someone he had a crush on. Maybe Adam would casually mention that there was a party that Friday night at a friend’s house. Maybe he would insist Marcel should go. “It won’t be as fun without you,” he’d say, artfully flipping his hair out of his eyes.

And for once, Marcel would keep it together long enough to shrug casually and say, “Sure, I’ll think about it, man.” He wouldn’t blush or stutter like usual when someone directly addressed him. He would play it cool. Hard to get.

Adam would be impressed then.

The only person who knew about Marcel’s desperate crush was Zayn. His best friend embodied everything Marcel wanted to be—handsome, cool, nonchalant. Sometimes Marcel had to take a deep breath and tell himself that high school wasn’t forever; one day, he would be out of this small school in Cheshire with small-minded people. One day, he would be older and successful and confident. Zayn encouraged him to live for that wonderful future, but also wanted him to be happy in the present. And that meant being honest about his feelings.

Marcel waited in vain for the invitation to a party with Adam, or any real conversation for that matter. Each day, Marcel sat in chemistry class, hopeful for any interaction. And each day, Adam treated him as barely an acquaintance. Finally, toward the end of the school term, Marcel had to take matters into his own hands. Chemistry class would be finished soon, and when would Marcel have another chance like this?

Sooner than he would have liked, Marcel was sitting nervously at the desk he shared with Adam, waiting for him to arrive. It was The Day. The day he would talk to Adam, maybe even ask him out. Marcel arranged his notebook and pencil neatly on the desk for the hundredth time that morning. When Adam slouched into the classroom, Marcel tried to ignore the knot in his stomach.

“Hey,” Adam whispered as he sat down at their desk.

“H-hey,” Marcel replied. He winced; not a great start.

Adam promptly opened his notebook and pulled out a mechanical pencil to take notes. Marcel ignored the butterflies in his stomach at the sight of Adam’s elegant fingers curling around his pencil. Marcel reluctantly focused his attention back on Professor White, who had begun to lecture. Marcel eyed the clock on the wall every other minute, waiting for the end of class. Then he would talk to Adam. When the professor finally wrapped up their lesson, the class began to gather their books to leave. It was now or never.

“Hey, Adam?” Marcel asked timidly.

Adam turned to face Marcel with brows raised in expectation. “What’s up?”

“I, um,” Marcel stammered, “was wondering. If y-you’d like to hang out sometime. With me.”

Adam frowned, eyes scanning Marcel’s appearance as if he was seeing him for the first time.

“Hang out?” He asked.

“Yeah,” Marcel replied breathlessly. “We could like, go to a movie or something?”

Adam’s jaw dropped. “Like…a date?” He asked.

Marcel felt his face flush red, but persisted. “Yeah, if you want.”

Adam tilted his head, as if weighing his options. Marcel forgot how to breathe for a moment.

“Um, thanks, man, but I’m not really into guys, if you know what I mean,” he finally replied.

Marcel’s heart dropped to his stomach. “Oh! That’s fine,” he rushed to say. “Don’t worry about it, then.”

Adam bit his lip, contemplating a response. “Sure man. I better run, class is about to start. Um. See you later, Mark.”

Marcel pasted a smile on his face and replied as casually as he could. “Ok, later then.”

Adam grabbed his books and was out of the room without a backward glance. Alone in the classroom, Marcel finally let his unaffected facade down. His shoulders slumped, and he hung his head in defeat. Well, at least he had tried. And Adam had been nice about it, all things considered. True, he still didn’t know Marcel’s name. But he was willing to overlook that for now. Marcel tried to look on the bright side. What was the worst that could happen now?

If more people were staring at Marcel in the corridors than usual, he figured it was because of his nerdy appearance. It wasn’t until he met Zayn at their lockers before lunch that Marcel realized something was wrong.

“Marcel, what did you say to Adam?” Zayn whispered, pulling Marcel aside urgently.

Marcel’s eyes widened. “I did what we talked about. Asked if he wanted to hang out sometime.”

Zayn cringed, then hung his head. “Listen, the whole school is talking about it. He must have told his friends.”

Marcel’s jaw dropped. “But he was so nice…why did he tell everyone?”

“They think…I don’t know, man. I guess they think it’s funny?” Zayn sighed. “I just wanted to be the first person to tell you.”

Marcel swallowed past a lump in his throat. Suddenly, he felt tears prick his eyes. “Oh god. Now what?”

“Well,” Zayn said, leaning against his locker, “Either you finally bunk off class with me…or now we go to lunch.”

“Lunch?” Marcel exclaimed, nervously fiddling with the knot of his tie. Suddenly, it felt suffocating. “I can’t go in there! Everyone is talking about me. I can’t face them.”

Zayn smiled sympathetically. “You’re gonna have to do it sooner or later.”

“Will you walk with me?” Marcel asked, blinking back tears.

“Of course,” Zayn replied, squeezing Marcel’s shoulder. “C’mon. If anyone says anything, I’ll break their kneecaps.”

Marcel sniffled, then tried to stand up straight. He took a deep breath, then nodded for Zayn to lead the way.

It was about as bad as Marcel expected. Conversations that had been going on subsided as Zayn and Marcel entered the dinner hall. Everyone stared for a moment. And then people began whispering and pointing. The girls at the cheerleaders’ table giggled. Even Jean, dinnertime supervisor who served up their meals frowned as Marcel passed.

As they sat down at their usual table, Marcel felt everyone’s eyes on him. He wished he was still at home in his bed. For once, the lunch period dragged by slowly, as Marcel picked at his food. Zayn didn’t attempt to strike up a conversation, and for that Marcel was eternally grateful. He sighed and placed his unused fork neatly on his lunch tray in defeat.

“Shit,” Zayn said, looking at something over Marcel’s shoulder.

Marcel turned his head only to see a group of girls advancing towards their table. The popular girls. Led by none other than Amber, Adam’s on-again, off-again girlfriend. They were rumored to be off again, not that it mattered. Marcel sighed. How could this day get any worse? He didn’t realize he was holding his breath in anticipation until Zayn kicked his foot under the table.

“Hey, loser,” Amber said as she reached the table. Just like that, everything in the room went quiet. Marcel’s classmates appeared to be waiting with bated breath to hear what Amber had to say.

“Just so you know, Adam isn’t available for dates. He’s dating me…not some gay nerd wearing my grandmother’s sweater.” Amber cut her eyes back toward her clique, who giggled on cue. When she turned back to face Marcel, he knew the cold look she was giving him would stay in his mind forever. “Back off,” Amber warned, flipping her long blonde hair over one shoulder. Her clique gave Marcel what could only be described as a death glare, then followed Amber back to their table.

There was silence for a moment, and then the entire student body began whispering excitedly. Marcel felt tears brimming in his eyes, and stared resolutely at his untouched lunch. Was this the worst day of his life? Unquestionably. Would he survive? Marcel had no clue.

The words Amber spoke echoed in his mind as if on repeat. _Hey, loser,_ she had taunted. _Some gay nerd. Gay nerd. Gay. Nerd._ Marcel hadn’t even told his mother yet. And now everyone knew.

Nothing Zayn could say at that point could comfort Marcel. After lunch, Marcel finished his day with downcast eyes, praying the humiliation was over. He walked home with a heavy heart, feeling utterly alone. That was the day he vowed he would never make a fool of himself again for love.

Now, ten years later, Marcel had indeed moved on. He had dated around sparingly at Zayn’s insistence, but never felt that intensity that had drawn him to Adam. And if he had it his way, he would never feel that way again.

Marcel spared a thought for the beautiful principal dancer he would never know, and then let it go. He followed Zayn out of the office towards lunch and didn’t look back.


	2. Chapter 2

II.

“When you dance, your purpose is not to get to a certain place on the floor. It’s to enjoy each step along the way.”

\--Wayne Dyer

 

To say this week of rehearsals was intense for Louis would be the understatement of the century. Preparing for a new Royal Ballet performance was grueling in and of itself. There was choreography to learn and master, visits to the costume department for fittings, all on top of the already challenging daily rehearsals in the studio.

But this wasn’t just any ballet. It was  _ Romeo and Juliet _ .

Besides being one of the world’s most famous ballets, it was also one of the most challenging. The first act alone featured a pas de deux with athletic leaps and turns meant to represent the young couple’s newfound love, and the exuberance of youth. The pas de deux left Louis, who was in his prime, a sweaty, trembling mess. Sara Rose, the other principal and his partner in the dance, fared no better. Her perfect bun unraveled, and she sweated off all her meticulous makeup. It wasn’t uncommon to find her during rehearsals draped exhaustedly over the barre like a wounded swan.

Mostly, though, Louis felt a new pressure from the public. Everyone had heard of  _ Romeo and Juliet _ , and everyone fancied themselves an expert. Louis knew that this show would attract more of the general public than usual, and nerves began to creep in. Butterflies in his stomach were a constant companion during the preparations for this ballet. But Louis did what he always did when faced with a huge challenge: he threw himself into his craft with a laser focus.

Louis arrived early to the studio on blustery London mornings, gradually shedding layers of warm clothing until the studio felt familiarly hot. He worked harder than ever during rehearsals, pushing his lithe body to the limit until his hands were too sweaty to grip the barre and his tired muscles burned like a marathon runner. And he stayed late after each rehearsal, sometimes working with instructors, and sometimes all alone. He was on a first name basis with the custodians who cleaned the studios, since Louis was still there in the evenings when they arrived.

And his hard work was paying off; Louis’ endurance increased, and he mastered the steps of the pas de deux with Sara in time for the rehearsal when the Royal Ballet director saw the ballet for the first time. That was also the day Louis and Sara premiered the first act to the rest of the company, meaning all of Louis’ peers were there as well. Louis’ heart was thumping so hard, he feared Sara could hear it beside him. The stage lights burned in his direction, making the stage much hotter than the studio. But Louis hadn’t come this far to freeze up now; he smiled through the sweat and strain of the pas de deux, his feet as light and graceful as if he was skimming over the surface of a frozen pond back home in Doncaster. When Louis and Sara concluded their first act, it was to thunderous applause in the opera house. From the corner of her eye, Sara glanced at Louis and whispered, “Nailed it!” through a wide smile. His answering smile was bright.

That evening, as he packed up his dance bag and the adrenaline from performing gradually wore off, Louis was completely exhausted. It was indeed as if he had finished a marathon that week. He had plans to go home and sleep for the next fourteen hours, but many from the company were going out to celebrate. Louis spared a thought for his nice, warm bed in his flat, and then joined his fellow dancers to a nearby club.

Back in his street clothes of black skinny jeans and a soft blue jumper that hung below his collarbones, occasionally slipping off one shoulder as he moved, Louis found a home on the crowded dance floor. As it was Friday night, the club was packed full of dancing people like Louis, looking to blow off some steam.

The dancers’ first stop had been the bar, where a few of the girls debated the sugar and calorie content of cocktails before deciding on vodka shots. Louis grinned at the bartender and rolled his eyes, then ordered a Long Island Iced Tea and a tequila shot. Louis really was a conscientious eater most of the time, but he figured he had earned a few extra calories tonight. Besides, he was about to dance them off anyway. Louis’ first sip of the LIT was a mixture of sweet and tart that left him sighing in relief. The stress of the week gradually faded as he drank more and more of the cocktail. By the time two of the dancers grabbed Louis by the hand and pulled him onto the crowded dance floor, the alcohol was thrumming pleasantly through his veins.

A quick-tempo song gave way to a slightly slower one, and Ariana Grande began singing “Into You.” A few in the crowd cheered the DJ for the song choice, and Louis smiled. The bass thumped at a catchy tempo, and Louis began to move. He found himself face to face with Sara’s understudy, Jade, and grinned when she rested her hands on his shoulders. Louis stepped closer as the song continued.

_ Oh baby, look what you started _

_ The temperature’s rising in here _

Louis held onto Jade’s waist as Ariana sang and the lights of the club flashed in tempo. She was a great dancer, of course, and for a moment Louis got lost in the song. His heart would always belong to the ballet, but there was just something about dancing in a club that was liberating. The alcohol left a pleasant buzz in his bloodstream as his body moved. He felt eyes on the two of them as they danced and smiled. Louis wasn’t looking to meet someone tonight, but there was no harm in having fun.

_ So baby, come light me up _

_ And maybe I’ll let you on it _

Louis felt a hand slide down his back before he saw another of his fellow dancers, John, behind him. Jade laughed and stepped closer until Louis was sandwiched between the two. Jade’s hands held Louis’ shoulders while behind him, John loosely gripped his waist. Louis couldn’t help but laugh and let his head fall back on John’s shoulder for a moment. His hazy eyes scanned the room, taking in the flashing lights and dancing bodies around him. He noticed the line at the bar was smaller now, and thought about getting another drink. And that’s when Louis saw him.

The man from the gala.

Louis knew he had seen the beautiful man first. He was being led towards the bar by the most objectively gorgeous man Louis had ever seen. Louis had never seen him at the galas, so he had no idea if the man was a patron of the ballet as well. He was dressed in casual black, with a lock of his dark hair artfully falling in his face. He had one hand at the other man’s back, guiding him through the crowd to the bar. Louis could definitely appreciate how handsome the new man was, but his slightly glazed eyes slid to focus on the man from the gala.

He was curiously dressed in a tailored shirt and jacket, with dark trousers and shiny shoes Louis instantly wanted. It wasn’t exactly club attire. Paired with thick, black framed glasses and slicked back hair, the man looked like he belonged at, well, a gala. Not a club.

It shouldn’t have made Louis’ heart skip a beat. But it did.

The man—Louis was dying to know his name—was drawing curious stares from other people in the club, but most people dismissed him in favor of his handsome companion. He parted the crowd with ease and casually signaled the bartender, and Louis was a little jealous. The man was the epitome of cool. Not to mention, he clearly knew the man from the gala.

For a moment, Louis considered wandering over to the bar to grab another drink and introduce himself. Louis could be casual, too. Wasn’t Louis cool? He watched through half-lidded eyes as the man from the gala whispered something to the other man, and his friend leaned closer to him. He nodded, and then relayed the drink request to the bartender, who appeared to be smitten by the men. Then realization dawned on Louis.

They were on a date.

Shit. Of course they were. They were handsome and cool and clearly together. Louis’ heart sank to his stomach, for some reason. It’s not like he even knew the man. They weren’t friends. They had shared a moment, though, a long stare at the gala that still left Louis breathless. He had never wanted to know someone this badly before.

It had all happened in the space of ten seconds, but Louis felt like his whole axis had shifted. Ariana was still singing about danger and secrets, and Jade and John were joking and laughing on either side of Louis. The throng of people on the dance floor were still moving to the music. But Louis was not the same person he had been when he entered the club. It was like he had witnessed a bubble form around himself and the man from the gala, and then watched it promptly burst.

The man was obviously taken. Louis blamed his crushing disappointment on the alcohol. He took one last look at the man, who was smiling at something his date said. Then Louis sighed and turned back to Jade and John, determined to finish his night as exhausted and drunk as possible.

*

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Marcel mumbled under his breath as he and Zayn entered the club.

Zayn inclined his head towards Marcel, tearing his eyes away from the flashing lights inside the room and the sprawl of bodies dancing around them. Zayn placed a protective hand at the small of Marcel’s back as he led them forward.

“Just for a little while, babe. It’s good to get out once in a while,” Zayn replied, smiling reassuringly. The bright pulses of light glinted off Marcel’s glasses, illuminating his troubled green eyes.

“One drink,” Marcel said begrudgingly, sighing.

It’s not that Marcel was pouting. He wasn’t. Marcel was a grown adult, after all. It was just, well. Ever since his YouTube journey this week discovering Louis Tomlinson, Marcel had been feeling a bit down. But he had resolved to put all thoughts of Louis in the past. It wasn’t healthy to dwell on things that would never be.

So Marcel had warily agreed to go out with Zayn tonight. He had stood inside his walk-in closet, staring at a tidy row of dress shirts and jackets, looking for something to wear. Just because Marcel was going to a hip new club, didn’t mean he couldn’t look like, well, Marcel. So he had settled on a soft grey button up and black jacket that matched his glasses, smiling a little as he pictured Zayn’s expression when he picked him up. As his best friend, Zayn was entitled to a little teasing here and there. So when he saw Marcel dressed like he was headed to a ballet gala instead of a club, Zayn would roll his eyes and say something witty. Marcel may not be pouting, exactly, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t goad his best friend now and then.

When he got the text that Zayn was waiting downstairs, Marcel grinned at his reflection in the mirror and left his apartment. He greeted the porter in the lobby, a genial man named Robert, and then swung the door open to a chilly London night. Marcel smiled in anticipation as he slid onto the back seat of the limo next to a waiting Zayn. And sure enough, Zayn took the bait.

“Sorry, are we going to brunch with my grandmother tonight?” Zayn said by way of greeting. “Is there a funeral I didn’t know about? C’mon, Marce, we’re going to a club!” he exclaimed, eyes scanning Marcel’s conservative appearance.

Marcel shrugged innocently, but couldn’t stop the grin from spreading across his face. “I just wanted to be comfortable,” he replied.

Zayn groaned long-sufferingly and let his head thump back against the headrest. “You’re pouting.”

“Am not!” Marcel said indignantly.

“Oh my god, you are,” Zayn snickered, staring from the corner of his eye. “Don’t even deny it.”

Marcel blushed a little but held his head high. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Mhm. You’re wearing the Fortune 500 tie. This wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain light-footed, mythical dancer named Lewis, would it?”

Marcel took the bait. “It’s  _ Louis _ . I told you. And no, it wouldn’t. I’m moving on.”

Zayn narrowed his eyes. “I bet you’re wearing argyle socks. Jesus. Moving on, huh?”

“Yes,” Marcel replied primly, straightening the glasses on his face. “I might even meet someone tonight. We are going to a club, after all.”

Zayn raised his eyebrows in surprise. “We certainly are. And look, we’re here.”

At that, Marcel’s confidence faltered a little. He traced the knot of his tie with nervous fingers and bit his lip as he looked out the window. “Already?”

“Hey, it’ll be fun. Let’s just have a drink and people watch,” Zayn coaxed, patting Marcel on the arm. “Let’s go.”

Marcel took a deep breath, then nodded. He followed Zayn into the club door and was immediately bombarded by music so loud it hurt Marcel’s teeth. But he walked onward.

Marcel let Zayn lead him to the bar, where Zayn flagged down a passing bartender with ease. It didn’t hurt that everyone at the bar had turned to look at Zayn. Marcel grinned at his best friend, but didn’t comment. He knew that in a slouchy black tee and black leather jacket, Zayn looked like a model. Men and women alike paused in their conversations to stare appreciatively.

Oblivious, Zayn ordered two cocktails from the pretty young bartender and then turned to face Marcel.

“Okay?”

Marcel smiled lopsidedly. “You did it again.”

“Did what, babe?” Zayn asked, digging in his back pocket for his wallet.

“Dazzled everyone,” Marcel whispered, smile blooming into a grin.

Zayn looked up with a faint crease in his brow, puzzled. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You don’t have to. You just…naturally dazzle,” Marcel explained patiently.

Zayn shrugged, then turned back to the bartender to pay for their drinks. “Maybe they’re looking at you, babe,” Zayn replied distractedly, reaching for their cocktails.

Marcel scoffed and took the colorful drink from Zayn’s outstretched hand. “Doubt it.”

Marcel turned to survey the crowded dance floor as he sipped his drink. It was sweet, just like he liked it, but the alcohol burned on the way down. Maybe this was exactly what Marcel needed.

“God, I love tequila,” Zayn mused, scanning the crowd. He sipped his drink, then nudged Marcel with his elbow. “Want to get out there?”

Marcel coughed on the drink he was taking. Alarmed, Zayn patted him on the back.

“Me? Dance?” Marcel gasped, still coughing a little.

“If you want to,” Zayn shrugged easily. “Or, we can just hang out here.”

“Let’s,” Marcel said, eyes still watering a little from the alcohol burning in his throat.

Zayn grinned and patted Marcel on the back reassuringly. “Fine with me.”

There was a companionable silence as the two watched the people dancing to the music thumping through the club. All around them, men and women were moving to the music and balancing drinks in their hands. Marcel smiled grimly. He could barely keep a grip on his drink standing still, never mind moving. He was a fish out of water here. Between the flashing of the strobe lights, Marcel scanned the room, staring at the unfamiliar faces.

The song ended and a new one began, and the crowd cheered. Marcel didn’t recognize the tune, but that didn’t mean much. He preferred what Zayn teasingly called “the oldies.”

A voice began singing along with the pounding bass, and Marcel took another sip of his drink.

_ I’m so into you, I can barely breathe _

_ And all I wanna do is to fall in deep _

The crowd parted a little as a group exited the dance floor to return to the bar, and Marcel glimpsed new faces. Was it just Marcel, or was everyone dancing that night beautiful? His eyes scanned the faces of each dancer, appreciating how they moved to the rhythm. There were tall, lithe women laughing and dancing in a group together. They looked like models.

Marcel took a contemplative sip of his cocktail, then focused his eyes on another group dancing. There was a very pretty girl facing a boy, while another boy crowded up behind them. Marcel’s eyes were drawn to the boy dancing in the middle. He was a little shorter and more delicate looking than the others, but the way he moved…like he was born to dance. Marcel didn’t realize he was staring until Zayn elbowed him.

“Who are you looking at?” Zayn asked, but his voice sounded far away to Marcel. It was like time had slowed down around that moment, and Marcel couldn’t look away from the boy dancing. He watched the boy run a graceful hand through his hair, still facing away from Marcel. And then he turned around, right in Marcel’s direction.

Marcel forgot how to breathe.

Around him, the woman singing and the chatter of voices faded to a dull sound. A strobe light illuminated the boy Marcel was watching, lighting up a familiar face. He was sweating slightly from exertion, but his cheeks were a rosy pink, and his eyes were electric blue. It was just a moment, but to Marcel it felt like an infinity. There was no one in the room except a spellbound Marcel and the boy. His body moved to the music Marcel could no longer hear. And for a moment, Marcel could have sworn the boy met his eyes across the room. Then, as quickly as it came, the strobe light flashed elsewhere, and the sounds of the club came rushing back to Marcel.

Just as Marcel recovered his voice and breathed, “Louis,” Zayn followed his line of sight and muttered, “Fuck.”

Marcel felt Zayn’s hand on his shoulder, trying to get his attention. It took a minute for Marcel to tear his eyes away from Louis. Because it was, without a doubt, Louis. Slowly, his eyes turned to face Zayn.

There was a new urgency in Zayn’s expression. His wide brown eyes were hopeful as he spoke. “Marcel…this is your chance,” he said, hands anchoring Marcel’s shoulders where they stood. “You have to talk to him. It’s like, fuck. It’s like  _ fate _ , Marcel.”

That snapped Marcel out of the spell he was under. He blinked, and suddenly, his eyes felt gritty from the bright lights. There was a lump in his throat as he opened his mouth to reply. His heart ached vaguely, and disappointment weighed him down.

“Zayn, I can’t.”

Zayn’s expression was incredulous. “What? Why?”

Marcel sighed, suddenly feeling older. “I just…can’t. Look at him. He’s just like what you said. Mythical. Perfect. Why would he talk to me?”

Zayn’s face fell, and his eyes reflected Marcel’s disappointment. “Babe…”

“No, it’s ok. I know. It was stupid to even think…”

“No!” Zayn countered, smiling sadly. “Wasn’t stupid. Was brave. Are you sure?”

Marcel took one last glance at Louis, who was still dancing between the boy and girl. For all Marcel knew, Louis was dating one of them. And even if he wasn’t…what then? It’s not like Marcel could stride across the dance floor and strike up a conversation. It was a club, after all—not a cocktail hour meet and greet. Marcel couldn’t dance, even if he wanted to. He had never felt more inhibited by his clumsiness and fear than he did then.

Sighing, he turned back to face Zayn. “I’m sure. Maybe…maybe we could go home?” he asked, voice thick with unshed tears.

Zayn appeared to protest for a moment, then his shoulders sagged. He nodded, then downed the rest of his drink. “Sure, babe. Let’s go.”

Marcel blinked rapidly, willing himself not to cry. He sniffled, then threw back his own drink, relishing the burn of alcohol down his throat. He let Zayn lead him back towards the door. Zayn dropped their glasses on a nearby table, then wrapped an arm around Marcel. Together, they huddled against the cold London evening and disappeared into the night.

The ride back to Marcel’s flat was quiet, and Zayn had linked his arm through Marcel’s when they climbed into the waiting car. Marcel was intensely grateful for his best friend. He bid Zayn goodnight when the car idled at the curb, and wordlessly walked back into his building.

Marcel unlocked the door and stepped into his empty apartment, and then leaned against the door in defeat. He felt one single, traitorous tear drip down his cheek. He closed his eyes, unable to deal with the solitude of his flat after the noise and liveliness of the club. He blindly reached for the remote that controlled his sound system, and clicked play.

The familiar notes of Clair de Lune spread through the dark flat, and Marcel sighed in relief. He dropped his keys on the side table, then trudged into his quiet bedroom. He resisted the urge to climb into his bed fully dressed. Instead, he carefully removed each piece of familiar clothing and hung it up in the closet. Then, finally, he shuffled to the bed and wrapped up in the covers. He was as exhausted as he’d ever been, but Marcel knew he was in for a sleepless night. As he listened to Debussy in his eerily quiet flat, Marcel pulled the duvet tighter around his frame, knowing each time he closed his eyes, he would see a pair of electric blue eyes in his mind.

*

Louis sat at the end of an executive table in a meeting room lit by flickering fluorescent lights, sweating in his only business suit. The chair he had been directed to by a brusque secretary only held the illusion of comfort; he had been waiting for just five minutes, and already he was uncomfortable. The meeting room where Louis found himself this morning was devoid of any personality. A fake fern stood in one corner, waxy leaves coated with dust. There were no windows. The fluorescent lighting left Louis’ skin a sickly green color, he found, examining his trembling hands as he waited. One single frame on the beige walls contained a motivational poster Louis had seen in several guidance counselors’ offices through his school career. This one spelled the word “Success” under a generic picture of a soaring eagle. Apparently, success was an endangered species here. It seemed, at a glance, that everything in this meeting room was designed to move things along briskly. No lingering. No dawdling.    
  
And for Louis, unfortunately, no dreaming.    
  
Louis took a deep breath and traced nervous fingers over the single folder he had brought to this meeting. It was nondescript and navy blue, borrowed from Liam of course, because Louis didn’t own anything so practical. It contained a proposal that Louis had been drafting for months, with Liam’s help and lots of Google searches about grants. But this proposal was in fact a dream that Louis had been building since he was thirteen, trying to find a place for himself in a tiny dance studio in Doncaster, and by extension, a place in the dance world. This simple folder contained his deepest hopes and dreams for the future. So much was riding on his success in this meeting. And Louis was just. Overwhelmed.    
  
He went over the points he and Liam had developed in their flat over the past few months, rehearsing what he would say to the busy executives about to arrive. He focused on a few dynamic, memorable words they had chosen for this purpose: opportunity, success, underprivileged, access, future, hope. Hope was Louis’ main word choice, and it stoked the fire that was burning in his heart. Hope was what had brought Louis out of his small town and into the dance world; it was what drove him tirelessly in his pursuit of his dreams. Dreams that he had finally achieved, through years of sacrifice and hard work. And now he intended to pay it forward. 

Louis was interrupted from his musing by the sound of footsteps approaching the meeting room. His pulse quickened, and his stomach twisted anxiously as he waited for the executives to enter. Louis faintly remembered to paste a smile on his face and straighten up in his chair at the last second. And then, three men in decidedly more expensive suits walked briskly into the room. Each was carrying an iPhone, a planner, and a copy of Louis’ proposal. At the sight of his proposal, signifying months of hard work and planning, Louis’ heart rate doubled. He resisted the urge to fidget in his stiff chair. And then, one of the men spoke.    
  
“Good morning, Mr. Tomlinson. Shall we begin?”   
  
Louis’ eyes widened a fraction, but he smiled and nodded as calmly as possible. “Of course.”    
  
Louis studied the man who initiated the meeting as he settled into his chair across the long table. He appeared to be in his early fifties, with neatly combed brown hair that was beginning to thin at the top. The man set his phone on the table, noting the time on the screen, and arranged his materials into a neat stack. He glanced at the two other men as they followed suit, then flashed Louis a brief smile.    
  
“So, Mr. Tomlinson, I understand the Royal Ballet is treating you well,” he continued, glancing at the first page of Louis’ proposal. His inquisitive brown eyes met Louis’, and Louis smiled as confidently as he could.    
  
“Yes, sir. Thank you for asking. I couldn’t ask for a better place to work,” Louis replied. He scanned the faces of the three men, looking for any hint of what decision they had reached. But they appeared well versed in giving nothing away before they were ready. One of the men was taking notes on the meeting’s proceedings, and the other wasn’t even looking at Louis; he was pondering something on Louis’ proposal.    
  
“I’m one of the executive officers at the bank, Mr. Tomlinson. My name is Mr. Rushing. I believe you spoke with my secretary, Gladys on the phone to set up this meeting.”   
  
“Yes, sir,” Louis replied with a calm smile. “I hope you’re all doing well today?”   
  
The two other men briefly glanced up at Louis, but didn’t reply.    
  
“Very well, thank you,” Mr. Rushing replied with a bland smile, checking his phone screen. “So, Mr. Tomlinson, I understand you’re hoping to secure funding for a dance studio, correct?”   
  
“Correct,” Louis nodded. “And I—“   
  
“Excellent,” Mr. Rushing continued, smoothly interrupting Louis’ reply. “A very worthy cause for a grant, Mr. Tomlinson, and we applaud you.”   
  
“Thank you, sir,” Louis said, now sitting on the edge of his seat.    
  
“I understand this initiative would provide access to dance education for less fortunate children in the community?” Mr. Rushing asked.    
  
“It would sir. As a matter of fact—“   
  
“Very good,” he replied, seeming not to notice he had once again interrupted. “The committee and I just had a few questions for you, based on this grant proposal.”   
  
Louis’ cheeks flushed with frustration, but he took a deep breath and nodded. “Yes sir.”   
  
“Yes, so,” Mr. Rushing said, flipping through the pages of Louis’ proposal. “We were just thinking, perhaps you could enlighten us—are there not any other dance studios in London currently meeting this need in the community?” He raised his narrowed brown eyes to meet Louis’ finally.    
  
“Well, sir, I believe there are a couple non-profit studios here; however, they mainly cater to—“   
  
“Right,” Mr. Rushing cut him off once more. “Our research shows that there are in fact studios currently in place to accomplish this. So what makes your proposal stand out, Mr. Tomlinson? What would be different about this studio of yours?”   
  
Louis took a quick breath, and then spoke before he could be cut off again. “Great question. In fact, sir, this studio’s main goal would be to make dance accessible to all young people interested, who simply can’t afford to try. All expenses would be covered for students who demonstrate a need for assistance. Shoes, studio time, apparel, and instructor fees would all be included in the grant. It could really—could definitely change their lives, sir.”   
  
The man to Mr. Rushing’s left coughed quietly, but did not comment. Mr. Rushing scanned all the faces in the room, and then nodded.    
  
“I can see you’re very passionate about this project, Mr. Tomlinson, and applaud your dedication. However, it is the decision of this committee at this time to decline a formal offer of funding. Based on the risk analysis involved with a start up such as this, as well as the initial costs, it’s just not practical to proceed.”   
  
Louis’ heart dropped to his stomach, but he clenched his jaw in determination. “Sir, I appreciate the risk involved on your end of this proposal. But I urge you to consider the return on your investment. This studio would equip students, not only with dance skills, but also strong work ethic that will transfer over to all aspects of their lives. I, for one, am sitting here today because the discipline and hard work I learned through ballet training inspired me to make the world a better place. I have to start somewhere, and I know it’s risky, but I have to try. Will you reconsider?”   
  
Mr. Rushing raised his eyebrows in mild surprise, as if unaccustomed to being questioned. He pursed his lips in thought, and Louis held his breath across the long table. Perhaps the man was, in fact, reconsidering. Perhaps Louis’ dream was finally taking shape. Perhaps—   
  
Someone’s phone alarm shattered the moment, and the two other men wordlessly began gathering up their materials. Mr. Rushing glanced at his associates, then nodded once.    
  
“I’m afraid at this time, Mr. Tomlinson, the committee is unable to grant you the needed funds for your project. However, we do encourage you to apply again when you have new information to present us, and wish you the best in the future. Thank you.”   
  
Tears stung Louis’ eyes, and he felt a lump in his throat, but the moment was clearly over. He smiled grimly, then stood to shake Mr. Rushing’s hand as he exited the room. One of his associates was already on his phone before he walked out, not casting Louis a single glance. The other man stared at Louis for a moment, then silently walked past. With a final farewell, Mr. Rushing left the room. And then Louis found himself alone.    
  
He smoothed down his slightly rumpled suit, and then slowly picked up his failed proposal folder. The adrenaline from the meeting faded, leaving Louis physically and emotionally exhausted. He spared one final glance at the empty meeting room, but didn’t linger. The sight of the “Success” poster and the sad, artificial plant brought reality screaming back to Louis.    
  
He had failed.   
  
Louis tried to smile, to trick himself into thinking that this wasn’t the end, but his smile was as fake as the fern in the corner. He wiped his sweaty hands on his jacket, then turned to leave. The rejection stung, and he was tempted to give up. It was, after all, a huge project that would need significant funding—more money than Louis had ever seen in his life. And then, say, even if he did secure the funds, what if no students came? What if his coveted studio sat empty? What if Louis’ dream was never realized?    
  
With a heavy heart, Louis trudged out of the meeting room and out into the dreary London morning, doubting more than ever his ability to make his dream come true.    
  
*

When Louis was 15, three things dominated his already busy life.   
  
Walking. Dancing. Working.    
  
Dancing was his favorite, obviously; the one of those three he’d prefer to be doing all the time. But right now, he was walking.    
  
Walking three miles, to be exact, in order to reach Ms. Beverly’s School of Dance—the only ballet studio in Doncaster.    
  
It was winter.    
  
Louis had passed the point of cold and had moved onto nearly frostbitten. His hands, currently stuffed in the pockets of last year’s coat, were so cold they burned a little. His face was frozen in a grimace he feared might be permanent. The harsh winter wind whipped around the sliver of exposed skin at his neck, and he shivered involuntarily. Louis hunched against the wind blowing in his face and mentally calculated how long it would take to reach the warmth of the studio.    
  
It took him 45 minutes today.    
  
As Louis walked numbly through the front door of the small studio, a familiar bell jingled overhead. The foyer was empty, but in the next room Louis could hear faint music as Ms. Beverly selected records to play for class. There was only one room in the studio, well lit but also usually drafty from the row of windows on the far side of the room. There was a barre that had seen better days, and a large mirror across from it. The center of the floor was worn down by years of scuff marks from dance shoes of all kinds. In one corner, a record player sat on a small table. Dance posters adorned the walls, faded from the sunlight streaming in the smudged windows. There was a framed print of Ms. Beverly herself, twenty years younger, smiling next to a class of young ballerinas in tiny tutus. Her glossy red curls had faded to grey now, but in the photo she looked young and vibrant. A few crows feet now marked her bright blue eyes, but her wide smile hadn’t changed.    
  
This was the studio where Louis had been dancing for the past two years, and it felt like a home away from home. One day, he dreamed of dancing in a real ballet company, maybe in London, maybe Moscow. But for now, the dance studio in Doncaster was a welcome escape from reality. For Louis, reality was loud. He shared a small house on the outskirts of town with his mother and five sisters, and the house was full of love but also noise. Coming to the dance studio three times a week was a holiday compared to Louis’ everyday life.    
  
And yet.    
  
As Louis greeted Ms. Beverly in the studio and dropped his bag in the corner, beginning the process of peeling off several warm layers, he kept his eyes downcast. A small group of his classmates had arrived too, and were chatting a few feet away from him. They didn’t so much as pause when Louis walked by, and definitely didn’t speak to him.    
  
Louis, you see, was the only boy in class. And at times, the isolation was extreme. Besides being male in a predominantly female world, Louis had another strike against him. Although his classmates had the grace never to bring it up, it was clear from Louis’ scuffed ballet shoes and one pair of dance tights that he was poor. Poor enough to attend the public school instead of the private school of his classmates; poor enough to have to work to support his family and afford dance shoes. Used dance shoes.    
  
Louis didn’t dwell on it; he didn’t mope about the cards he had been dealt in life. Because Louis had a dream to one day leave this small town and be a real dancer—not just the lone boy standing in the back of class fighting for space to move. And although Louis was a dreamer, he was also practical. He knew his grades weren’t going to get him out of Doncaster. His mother wasn’t going to inherit a fortune from an unknown rich relative. If Louis was going to get out, it was up to him. So he focused all his determination, athleticism, and soul into the one thing that he truly loved: ballet.    
  
Louis had never taken to anything as quickly and completely as he had ballet. The first time he stepped into Ms. Beverly’s studio—to pick up his sister, Lottie, from class, of all things—he was captivated. He had stood with a few parents inside the doorway as the class finished rehearsing a dance, spellbound by the grace, athleticism, and precision the dancers used. And yet, they made it look effortless. His first instinct was, perhaps he could do this too. But he soon realized, walking his sister home that evening, that the world he had glimpsed belonged to girls.    
  
“You have your football and action figures, Lou, and we have dance,’’ Lottie had explained, brushing her fine blonde hair out of her eyes. “That’s just how it is.”   
  
That night, Louis had logged on to the family computer and searched everything there was about ballet, until his eyes were gritty from staring at the screen for so long. The next day, helping his mother with the dishes after dinner, Louis broached the subject casually.    
  
“Mum?” he had asked, carefully drying a stack of dishes. “Do you think I could do dance, too? Like Lottie?”   
  
His mother, Jay, had paused and raised her eyebrows at the unexpected question. She mulled it over for a moment, and then replied, “I think you can do anything you set your mind to, love.”   
  
Louis let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, and nodded.    
  
“Is that something you’d like to try, Lou?” his mother continued.    
  
Louis ducked his head, but nodded. “I mean, just to see if I could do it, you know?”   
  
“Hmm,” Jay mused. “I don’t see why not. If it’s something you really want to do.”   
  
“I do,” Louis replied, and he realized he truly meant it.    
  
So Jay enrolled Louis in a beginner ballet class, where he was not only the only boy but also the oldest student by far, and Louis had walked into Ms. Beverly’s School of Dance as a student himself this time. He danced in socks for the first month until Ms. Beverly could help Louis locate a pair of ballet shoes to fit his feet. He would never forget the moment he first put on a pair of ballet shoes. Black, with little elastic bows that would loosen or tighten the shoe. Split sole, according to his new teacher, meaning he could practice his point much better. Never mind that they were used shoes; Louis spent his time away from the studio spinning on the worn linoleum floor of Jay’s kitchen, imagining it was a grand stage.    
  
At 13, Louis was at the height of his awkwardness, but he didn’t give up. Not when he wore the first hole in the toe of his dance shoe; not when the girls in class tittered as he tried to do the splits. Louis had never been a quitter, and he wasn’t about to start now.    
  
Because here was an activity, although more challenging than anything he had ever tried—that exhilarated him. Stretched him to the limit of his endurance and athleticism. Defied convention. Simply put, Louis was hooked. So when times got tougher for the Tomlinson family, and it became clear Louis would not have access to a car or funds, Louis took it upon himself to walk the three miles to dance class, and then the mile and a half to the diner after class, where he worked till close. And whenever he got down about his circumstances, or his future, or anything, really, Louis had an ally.    
  
Ms. Beverly, now elderly and past her dancing prime, was nevertheless the toughest person Louis had met besides his own mother. In addition to leading the class, she held regular conferences with each student to check up on their grades, their home lives, and their progress in ballet class. Sometimes, Louis felt she was the only teacher who cared enough to do so. She was the one who first suggested Louis try to gain acceptance into a dance school in London. She was the one who made sure Louis was completing his school work in addition to his after school activities and job. And she was the one who volunteered to be a reference on Louis’ applications to dance schools in London, when he worked up the courage to apply.    
  
“What if I don’t make it?” Louis had asked, clutching the application in trembling hands in the studio.    
  
Ms. Beverly smiled enigmatically. “Then you try again. And again, and again. You try until you get where you belong, Louis, which is the best dance school in the world.”    
  
Louis’ eyes blurred with grateful tears, and he stammered out a thank you.    
  
“You’re going to make it, Louis,” she had said, pulling him into a warm embrace. “There are no limits to what you can accomplish. Remember that, okay? And remember us, when you’re the principal dancer at a ballet company somewhere.”   
  
Against all odds, Louis made it into the prestigious Trinity Laban Conservatoire of Music and Dance. The day he got his acceptance letter, he and Ms. Beverly both cried. Louis knew now, as his teacher had known all along, that if he was given the chance, he could succeed. So he packed his meagre belongings, moved to London, and attacked every challenge the dance school threw his way with the kind of drive only someone truly passionate contains. 

And when he stepped through the studio doors at his new dance school for the first time, Louis had promised himself that one day, he would do for others what Ms. Beverly had done for him. He wanted to teach young people like himself not just to dance, but to believe in themselves. So his dream of owning and operating his own studio began to take shape. Louis knew if he could touch just one life the way ballet had touched his, that all his hard work would be worth it.    
  
Today, ten years later, as Louis left the bank and braced himself for the chill London air, he remembered the long walks to the Doncaster studio every week. If he could do that, then he could do this. And he had come this far. Louis swallowed against the lump in his throat, held his head up, and walked home with a new determination. Today, his dream had been put on hold, but Louis would never give up.    
  
*   


What did one wear to one of the most beautiful ballets in the world?

Marcel sighed and hung his head, standing in the doorway of his walk-in closet. The familiar sight of a meticulously organized closet, which usually gave Marcel a sense of peace, only frustrated him now. He blinked through a pair of tortoise-shell glasses down at his socked feet on the hardwood floor of his bedroom. Time was ticking.

Behind Marcel, Zayn was sprawled out on the large four-poster bed, alternating between wardrobe commentary and watching Planet Earth on Netflix.

“Did you know that there are elephants in the Congo?” he asked, eyes glued to the large TV screen. “Fascinating.”

Marcel glanced over his shoulder, temporarily distracted, and grinned. “If you think that’s great, wait till they get to the chimpanzees.”

Zayn’s brown eyes flickered to Marcel’s, a mixture of impressed and exasperated. “How many times have you seen this again?”

Marcel shrugged, smiling innocently. “I like animals. Sue me.”

“I should. You certainly deserve it, for taking this long,” Zayn sighed, falling back against a pillow. “Have you decided what to wear yet?”

Marcel shook his head. “It’s just…it’s  _ Romeo and Juliet _ , you know? I want to look, like. Nice.”

“What happened to the Gucci herringbone suit? That looked nice.”

Marcel shrugged restlessly. “It just didn’t seem…special enough.”

Zayn tore his eyes away from the TV screen, where a large group of chimpanzees was chasing a rival group through the forest.

“So what are you thinking?”

Marcel bit his lip in hesitation. “Maybe…floral?”

Zayn’s face lit up in a grin. “Now we’re talking! Yes!”

“This one?” Marcel asked, carefully pulling a dark blue suit from the rack beside him. In the dim light of the bedroom, the floral print was a muted blue. But when the light struck the fabric, Marcel knew it was a dramatic look.

“Beautiful, babe. I say go for it,” Zayn said in approval.

Marcel studied the suit thoughtfully for a moment, then hung it on his closet door. He carefully selected a matching shirt for the suit, fidgeting with the buttons.

“Marce, what’s wrong?” Zayn asked, breaking the silence.

Marcel turned to face Zayn with a grim smile. “He’s never going to see it. What does it matter?”

Zayn’s initial surprise faded to a gentle expression. “You mean…?”

“Louis,” Marcel clarified, avoiding Zayn’s eyes. He studied the stitching in the shirt he was holding. “He won’t even know I’m there.”

“Hey, now,” Zayn said, sitting up on the bed. “You don’t know that. And besides, you feel better when you look your best.”

Marcel’s uncertain green eyes met Zayn’s. “Was it stupid? To ever hope that I might meet him one day?”

Zayn rose from the bed and wrapped Marcel in a hug. “No, babe. If it matters to you, then it’s not stupid.”

Marcel relaxed into the hug, resting his head on Zayn’s shoulder. “I just…want to know him, you know? To see him as more than just a dancer.”

“Then you will,” Zayn insisted, pulling back to hold Marcel at arms’ length. He braced his hands on Marcel’s wide shoulders. “So don’t give up.”

Marcel smiled gratefully. “You’re a really great friend, Zayn.”

Zayn grinned lopsidedly and patted Marcel on the shoulder. “So are you. Don’t forget it.”

“Why didn’t we ever fall in love?” Marcel quipped, eyes brightening behind his thick glasses. It had been a running joke between them for years.

“Because we’d kill each other, babe,” Zayn answered, as he always did. “And besides,” he added, deviating from the script now with an enigmatic smile, “I think the universe has something much bigger in store for you.”

Marcel’s smile was slightly confused as he replied, “What do you mean?”

“Wait and see, babe,” Zayn concluded. “Great things happen to great people, you know? Sometimes the universe gets it right.”

*

Marcel had let Zayn off the hook from attending the ballet tonight, so his journey to the Royal Opera House this time was a quiet one. It gave Marcel time to think, which could be a good thing or a bad thing, depending.

It was a good thing because Marcel had a few minutes to mentally prepare himself to see Louis. He took deep breaths, focusing on calming thoughts, trying not to fidget in the back of the limo.

It was a bad thing because even after Zayn’s pep talk back at his flat, reality slowly began to creep back in. Even from his prime location at the ballet, in his own personal box overlooking the stage, Louis would never see him. Marcel let out a soft sigh and looked down at the floral suit he had chosen, knowing he was the only one who would be appreciating it tonight.

By the time the car arrived at the opera house, Marcel was in a mood that only something as magnificent as the ballet could cure. He joined the throng of people heading to their seats, grabbed a program, and settled in his box. It was truly a great view of the stage, and some of the tension in Marcel’s shoulders relaxed. He could hear the orchestra warming up below, and had a great view for people watching until the ballet began. Marcel’s eyes landed on an elderly couple making their way to their seats, dressed to the nines. They were holding hands as they teetered down the aisle. Marcel imagined himself in fifty years, probably still an avid supporter of the ballet, coming to these events. Most likely, alone.

Marcel was saved from any further depressing thoughts by the dimming of the lights as the production was about to begin. He relaxed back into the familiar red velvet seat, sparing a thought for his best friend. Marcel was used to doing many things alone in his life, but the ballet was a tradition for Zayn and him.

Down in the pit, the conductor signaled the orchestra it was time to begin. Marcel let the overture to  _ Romeo and Juliet _ wash over him for a few minutes, enjoying the music. When the dramatic red velvet curtain parted on the stage, revealing the first glimpse of the dancers, Marcel was on the edge of his seat.

In that moment, Marcel was finally honest with himself. He hadn’t been looking for Louis at  _ Marguerite and Armand,  _ and he hadn’t been looking for Louis at the club that night. But Marcel was looking for him now as the corps of dancers parted onstage to reveal Romeo for the first time. And then Marcel finally saw him.

He forgot how to breathe.

Marcel was dimly aware his jaw had dropped and his eyes were comically wide, but there were more important things to focus on. Namely, the sight of Louis looking lithe and lovely in an elaborate blue and silver jacket and immaculate white tights. Marcel knew even from this distance that the blue of the jacket would bring out Louis’ eyes beautifully. He had, after all, made a habit of admiring Louis from a distance every time.

Everything else melted away with the first pas de deux. It was as if one minute Marcel was sitting in his usual box in the opera house, and the next, he was transported to another place and time as he watched the star-crossed lovers dance. The pair of dancers displayed so much athleticism and grace with such ease that for a moment, Marcel felt like  _ he  _ was the one leaping gracefully across the moonlit stage. Watching Louis perform the pas de deux with his partner was heartbreakingly beautiful. Marcel lost track of time as the ballet’s story unfolded onstage. The love story in itself had always captivated Marcel, but tonight he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Louis. Whenever he was onstage, Louis was the only one Marcel saw.

It was in the way his limbs could hold a beautiful pose longer than other dancers Marcel had seen over the years. It was the way his slender yet strong legs propelled him into the air in amazing leaps and turns. Even Louis’ expression, from Marcel’s myopic viewpoint from above the stage, conveyed the emotion of the moment—sometimes joyous, sometimes somber. Marcel imagined for a moment that he, too, could master such difficult and athletic steps. That his usually clumsy limbs could perform such graceful movements with such confidence. Marcel smiled grimly in his lonely box as the ballet concluded and the curtain closed. He might as well wish to sprout wings and fly high above the city, for all his awkward limitations. His lack of grace; his crippling shyness; his self-doubt. As the principal dancers took a final bow to thunderous applause from the opera house that night, Marcel realized he and Louis might as well have been on different planets for how utterly different they were.

*

A mixture of emotions flooded Louis as he prepared for the last ballet gala before the holidays. Coming off the success of  _ Romeo and Juliet,  _ Louis felt more confident than ever, like he had finally earned his place in the company as principal. On the other hand, the rejection by the bank to fund his lifelong dream was crushing. Now, more than ever, he needed to secure funding for his studio while he was still in his prime. After all, he wouldn’t be a principal forever. And potential injuries lurked behind every corner as Louis trained. Maybe one of the ridiculously rich donors he had been chatting with all season would be sympathetic to his idea. Louis knew that if he just got the chance to be heard, he could convince someone to help.

Louis settled on the black suit, since he wore the blue one last time. He styled his hair carefully in the mirror, and took extra care with straightening his tie. Liam would be proud.

Once at the Royal Ballet holiday gala, Louis was temporarily lost in a sea of people. He wandered over to the bar, greeting familiar faces as he went. Louis ordered a drink and surveyed the crowd. By now, Louis knew many of the names that went with the important faces. The other dancers had clued Louis in on who to know, and even who to avoid. Apparently, along with wealth came the belief that one could talk your ear off for hours. Louis had learned that one the hard way.

Louis collected his drink, then gravitated towards the corner of the room where one of his favorite couples was standing. Mr. and Mrs. Claude Pepper, in addition to being some of the wealthiest people in the room, were also the oldest. And the cutest, in Louis’ opinion. The Peppers were in their 80s at least, and tottered around together holding hands everywhere they went. Louis loved them because they defied convention—disregarded it entirely, in fact.

“Oh, Louis,” Claude boomed a little too loudly as Louis approached, drawing the attention of several other ballet patrons. “Join us! We were just discussing the last performance.”

Louis grinned as he strode towards the couple, nodding in polite greeting. “I hope you enjoyed it!”

“Enjoyed? My dear, it was beyond enjoyable,” Mrs. Pepper exclaimed, opening her arms for a hug. “It was magnificent. Flawless. Perfect in every way.”

Louis ducked his head and hugged Mrs. Pepper, grateful to see friendly faces. “We did our best,” Louis replied.

“Let me look at you. You look thin. Are you eating enough?” Mrs. Pepper fretted, examining Louis’ physique.

“Carol, he’s a grown man. Of course he’s taking care of himself,” Claude said fondly.

“Hush, dear. I’m talking to Louis,” Mrs. Pepper reprimanded, winking at Louis. “Now. Tell me you went out and celebrated somehow after the ballet. A performance like deserves a night on the town!”

Louis chuckled and shrugged. “Eh. I went home and ate pasta with my roommate. Chatted on the phone with my mum.”

“Of course you did, dear, how lovely,” Mrs. Pepper crooned, a little starry eyed. “Why, if I wasn’t twenty years younger—“

“Just twenty?” Claude interjected, grinning at Louis.

“—I said  _ hush,  _ dear—twenty years younger, I would take you to dinner myself,” she concluded with a motherly pat on Louis’ shoulder.

“You’re both too kind,” Louis smiled, finally enjoying himself.

“I see everyone’s here tonight,” Claude observed, scanning the crowd in the room. “There’s Stevens—cheats at cards, don’t tell him I said that—oh, and McAllister, he owes me 50 pounds, that rascal—“

Louis turned to look at the crowd as Mr. Pepper pointed out his acquaintances. He couldn’t help but notice the average age of the ballet patrons was around 60. As Louis listened to the Peppers bicker fondly between themselves, Louis imagined growing old with someone like that.

“…oh, and there’s Styles, of course,” Claude continued, nodding at someone across the way.

“Lovely young man,” Mrs. Pepper chimed in. “But surely Louis already knows that, dear.”

Louis frowned slightly, trying to focus on the man the Peppers were discussing. All Louis could see was the back of the man’s head.

And then, as if feeling eyes on him, the man turned around. Louis almost dropped his drink.

It was him. The man from the other gala; the man from the club; the man Louis hadn’t been able to get out of his mind even though he was likely taken. But tonight he was alone…

“Sorry, no,” Louis said, tearing his eyes away finally. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Oh, Louis! You must meet him,” Mrs. Pepper urged. “Such a nice young man.”

“Go on, Louis. Leave us old people to ourselves here, and go have fun,” Claude added with a twinkle in his eye.

Louis eyed the elderly couple with mild concern. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, my dear,” Mrs. Pepper said, mirroring her husband’s smile. “Thank us later.”

Louis frowned slightly, perplexed at Mrs. Pepper’s comment, but nodded slowly and bid the couple goodbye. He located the man—Styles—in the crowd, and then took a detour to the bar. Louis ordered two cocktails, ensuring they were sweet, and then took a deep breath as he studied the man in question.

He was turned toward a couple Louis had met a few times, displaying a handsome profile. This close, Louis realized he was taller than he initially thought. The man was wearing a stylish herringbone suit and the same black framed glasses he had worn to the last gala. He was smiling at something the couple had said, and the movement transformed his face. He had a beautiful smile, Louis noticed.

Louis gathered all his courage and then wove through the crowd towards the couple talking to the man. As Louis approached, the woman spotted him.

“Ah, Louis!” she smiled, welcoming him to the group. “We were just talking about you!”

Louis felt the man’s eyes on him, but smiled patiently at the woman. “Mrs. Smith,” he greeted, nodding politely. “Nothing bad, I hope.”

Mr. and Mrs. Smith, both in their sixties, chuckled at the comment. “On the contrary,” Mr. Smith said by way of greeting. “Only good things.”

Louis smiled at the Smiths again, then finally let his eyes rest on the man he had been seeking.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Louis said, smiling mildly while his heart nearly beat out of his chest. Because, wow. Louis had never seen such green eyes up close. “Drink?” he asked, offering one of the cocktails.

“Thank you,” the man said, clearly surprised. “And um, no we haven’t.”

“Excuse my manners!” Mrs. Smith exclaimed. “Louis, this is Marcel Styles. Marcel, Louis Tomlinson.”

Louis was aware everyone was looking at him now, but couldn’t look away from the man’s eyes.  _ Marcel’s  _ eyes. When Marcel extended a hand for Louis to shake, he took it as if in a trance.

“Pleased to meet you,” Marcel said in a deep voice, blushing slightly. And Louis was a goner.

“You too,” Louis said faintly, grasping his hand. At the touch, Louis felt little tingles erupt where their hands were joined. He didn’t realize he was still holding Marcel’s hand until a discreet cough snapped him out of it.

“So glad we could introduce you,” Mrs. Smith said with a wry smile. “We’ll talk to you later, Louis. Marcel, lovely to see you as always.” With a parting nod, the Smiths walked away towards the bar.

Louis’ eyes turned back to Marcel’s to find that he was already looking at him. And Louis just. Didn’t know what to say.

“I’ve been watching you,” Marcel began at the same time Louis said, “Where’s your boyfriend?”

Shit. Fuck. Damn. Hell. Louis was dying a slow and public death.

In unison, Marcel and Louis both cringed. Louis felt a blush rise in his cheeks, and closed his eyes in embarrassment. After a moment, Louis cracked one eye open to assess the situation, and found Marcel smiling with barely contained amusement. He covered his grin with a graceful hand, bright eyes twinkling behind his glasses.

“Shall we try that again?” Marcel asked, and Louis could only nod, mirroring his embarrassed smile.

“I didn’t mean that in a creepy way, sorry,” Marcel continued. “I meant, I’ve been watching your performances. At the ballet. I love to watch you dance.  _ Shit _ . I mean…” he trailed off helplessly, face crimson now. “Um.”

Louis’ expression softened to a smile. “I know what you mean. And thank you.”

“And you were saying?” Marcel asked, nervously biting his lip.

Louis’ eyes widened, put on the spot like that. “I don’t…might as well…I was asking,” Louis said, taking a deep breath, “if your boyfriend was here tonight?”

Marcel frowned, head tilting slightly to the side in confusion. “Boyfriend?”

Louis’ face burned in embarrassment. Death would have been kinder at this point. “You know,” Louis continued, fidgeting a little. “Tall, dark, and handsome? Unfairly cool looking?”

Marcel stared at Louis for a moment, and then understanding dawned on his face. “Zayn? My best friend?”

Something dangerously like hope began to grow in Louis. “Best friend?”

“Yeah,” Marcel said slowly. “You thought we were dating?”

“I…” Louis trailed off, averting his eyes. “I just thought. Um.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Louis distinctly heard Marcel snort a laugh. His eyes snapped back to Marcel’s in wonder, only to find him shaking with contained laughter.

“Oh god. This is a disaster,” Marcel coughed, holding back a chuckle. “And that’s saying something, for me. I’m the epitome of disaster.”

Louis raised his brows in surprise. “You? Mr. GQ? Looking like you should be a model for designer clothes?  _ You’re  _ a disaster?”

Marcel’s chuckles faded gradually. “Me?! You think I’m a model?”

“I mean,” Louis shrugged, wondering if he would ever stop blushing, “I don’t know. We just met.”

“I could be a serial killer for all you know,” Marcel said conspiratorially under his breath. “Or Batman.”

Louis found himself grinning. “Batman? He doesn’t even have any powers! He just has—“

“Cool gadgets!” Marcel exclaimed with a bright smile. “Exactly!”

For a moment, Louis and Marcel just grinned at each other, oblivious to anyone around them.

Louis opened his mouth to reply, but just then an announcement informed the guests it was time for dinner. Hope sparked in Louis again as he slowly met Marcel’s eyes.

“Do you have plans?” Louis asked, gesturing to the waiting dinner tables across the room.

Marcel shook his head slowly, a smile spreading across his face. “None. You?”

“Same,” Louis said, feeling a little shy now. “Mind if I join you?”

“I’d love that. And you can speculate some more about my secret identities.”

Louis laughed, raising his glass in salute. “Let’s do it, Batman.”

*

Louis had never had so much fun at a gala dinner before. Besides being handsome, Marcel was smart and so, so witty. With each elaborate course of the dinner, Louis was more and more charmed.

Marcel, while not actually a model for GQ Magazine, was nonetheless fascinating. He had started a consulting business with his best friend (and not boyfriend) Zayn a few years ago, and it had taken off. In the meantime, Marcel liked puns, nature documentaries, and of course, the ballet.

“So you’ve been coming for a long time?” Louis asked over the fish course.

Marcel raised his eyebrows at the double entendre.

“I mean, coming to the ballet!” Louis grinned, rolling his eyes. Marcel’s answering grin was mischievous.

“Um, yes,” he said, clearing his throat. “Since I was a kid, in fact. My mother loved the arts, and brought me to the ballet instead of to football games. I didn’t mind. Did you always want to be a dancer?”

Louis poked experimentally at the fish on his plate, and politely put down his fork. “Actually, as a kid, me and my best friend, Stan wanted to be football players.”

“What happened to that plan?” Marcel asked.

“Well,” Louis shrugged, “dance kind of…just found me. And I was hooked.”

“How old were you?”

“13,” Louis replied with a smile. “Late bloomer, I guess you’d say.”

“You mean,” Marcel said slowly, “that you’ve learned all that…done all that, in just what? 10 years?”

“Well, 12,” Louis admitted. “But yeah.”

“Louis, that’s…wow, that’s amazing!”

Louis ducked his head and smiled. “Thank you.”

Louis had lost track of the other conversations happening at their table; he was completely engrossed in what Marcel was saying. There was something about the way he spoke, thoughtful and measured, that made Louis hang on his every word. He couldn’t get enough.

“So,” Louis said, continuing the conversation. “Do you dance?”

“Me?” Marcel replied, looking mildly shocked. “I can’t even walk straight, much less dance.”

“You just seem so…graceful. Steady,” Louis explained.

Marcel laughed self-deprecatingly. “I regularly fall up the stairs here. Not down, but  _ up _ . Have you ever done that?”

Louis bit back a grin. “Um, no. But I’ve fallen in the studio plenty of times.”

“But you always get back up.”

“Always,” Louis said, raising his water glass in salute. “There’s this saying I kind of live by, maybe you’ve heard it? ‘Fall seven, rise eight’?”

Marcel smiled. “I like that. So if life knocks you down seven times, you get up eight. Nice.”

“Words to live by, I guess,” Louis said, mirroring Marcel’s smile.

“I’m glad I met you, Louis Tomlinson,” Marcel said softly. “And not just because you have good taste in drinks.”

Louis’ smile widened. “Glad I met you, too, Marcel.”

Marcel regarded Louis through his trademark glasses for a moment, and they sat in companionable silence.

“What?” Louis asked. “Do I have something on my face?”

Marcel nodded his head, and his expression softened. “Handsome.”

Louis grinned teasingly. “I have handsome on my face?”

Marcel nodded solemnly. “All over it, yes.”

Louis bit back a wide smile, nodding slowly. “Good to know. Thank you.”

“Anytime.”

By the time dessert arrived, Louis and Marcel were in their own little bubble. Dimly, Louis recognized that there were other people at the table, and that he should be polite and speak to them. He realized that Marcel might be getting bored hearing him talk. But now that he had finally met Marcel, Louis was in deep.

The evening was drawing to a close, and Louis knew he had booked studio time for 10 a.m. the next morning. He should get some sleep. He had no idea what time it was, though—hadn’t checked his phone in hours. Eventually, people at the table and all around began to gather their things and say goodbye. Louis looked at Marcel, afraid to ask what he had been dying to ask him all night.

Marcel met Louis’ eyes, expression clearly debating something. Then he spoke.

“Sorry if I’m being forward, but if I don’t ask you this now, I’ll regret it. Can I, um. Would you consider giving me your number?”

Louis found himself nodding before Marcel even finished his sentence. “I, sure. Yes.” Louis pulled out his neglected phone, shocked to find it was 1 am. “Here, give me yours, too.”

It wasn’t the smoothest move Louis had ever made, but Marcel smiled shyly and offered Louis his phone. The two exchanged numbers, then pocketed their phones. Around them, the room was almost empty.

“Guess it’s time to go,” Louis said, sneakily saving Marcel’s contact as  _ Mr. GQ _ .

“Yeah,” Marcel sighed, looking wistful. “Can I take you home?”

At the proposition, Louis raised his eyebrows.

“I mean! Um. May I offer you a ride home,” Marcel said, cheeks blushing again.

“Oh! Thanks, but my roommate is picking me up. He’s on the way home from a date,” Louis replied, silently cursing Liam and his goodwill.

“No problem,” Marcel said, slowly rising from the table. “Text me if you want to. I’ll be around.”

Louis nodded, standing as well. “I will. Text you, I mean.”

Marcel smiled, standing with his hands in his pockets. “That sounds great.”

Louis nodded, then turned to walk out of the gala. Marcel’s voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Oh, and Louis?”

“Hmm?” Louis said, turning on the spot to face Marcel.

Marcel strode a few steps closer. “I had a lovely evening. Thank you.”

“So did I,” Louis breathed softly. “Goodnight, Marcel.”

“Night, Louis,” Marcel replied, lips curving up into a private smile. Louis watched as Marcel turned and walked to the exit and into the night.

Louis pulled out his phone, contemplating sending Marcel a text, but hesitated. Was that creepy? He walked towards the exit, counting down the hours until it was socially acceptable to text Marcel.

His phone pinged, notifying him of a new text. Louis read it, smile growing to a fond grin. Marcel.

_ Mr. GQ: Heading to the bat cave. Sleep tight. _

Louis typed a quick reply, chuckling, then pocketed his phone and walked out the door. His smile lasted until he finally crawled into bed, exhausted but happy. He hoped Marcel liked his reply. Louis dozed off eventually, dreaming of bright green eyes and a warm smile.

_ Louis: Does this mean you’ll be the one in tights next time, Batman? _

_ * _


	3. Chapter 3

III.

“The only way to make sense out of change is to plunge into it, move with it, and join the dance.”

\--Alan W. Watts

 

Marcel’s still not quite sure how he made it home from the gala after talking with Louis. Yes, Marcel couldn’t believe it: he talked with Louis Tomlinson. And it was everything Marcel could’ve dared to hope for and more. 

All he remembers is coming home to his dark, quiet apartment, and for the first time in a long time, not feeling overwhelmingly lonely. Instead of his usual soothing Debussy, Marcel flipped through his extensive library and chose something a little more upbeat. Hopeful.

Rhapsody in Blue.

As the familiar opening notes of the song began, a smile spread across Marcel’s face. He loosened his tie and turned the volume up. Then, he waltzed to his bedroom (tripping on a rug as he went, but oh well) and began undressing and hanging up his clothes. He sang along with Gershwin’s melody as he methodically undressed. When everything was in its place, Marcel turned to look at his large, plush bed. It was a welcome sight.

With childlike energy, Marcel took a few long strides and then launched himself onto the bed. He spread his limbs out like a starfish and sighed in contentment as his body sank into the luxurious duvet. His fingers tapped out the familiar piano notes on either side of his body. Marcel couldn’t remember the last time he was this happy.

Because Louis Tomlinson existed. And Marcel had made him smile.

Marcel brought up the text conversation he had started when he left the gala. Louis’ response had come quickly, and was just as wonderfully witty as Marcel expected. He had saved Louis’ number under the name  _ Happy Feet. _

After Marcel joking about retiring to the Bat Cave, Louis had typed out:

_ Happy Feet: Does this mean you’ll be the one in tights next time, Batman? _

Marcel had gone to sleep with a smile on his face.

The next morning, Marcel pondered his reply as he cooked breakfast. The image of himself in tights was funny, he had to admit. Marcel poured a cup of coffee and then typed out a response.

_ I’m actually more of a Clark Kent kind of guy, tbh. _

Marcel sat down at the cozy nook in the corner of his kitchen and scrolled through the day’s news on his iPad while he waited for Louis’ reply. It came as Marcel was standing to refill his coffee cup.

_ Happy Feet: I can see that. So you’re actually Superman then? _

Marcel grinned and thought about what he would say next. He had been an over-thinker his whole life, so for once, he just went with his gut.

_ Maybe. If I was, I wouldn’t be able to tell you though. _

Louis’ answering text was immediate.

_ Happy Feet: I can keep a secret. _

Marcel chuckled, then replied just as fast.

_ Good. So can I. _

He could easily picture Louis rolling his eyes at that, and it made Marcel feel oddly proud. Louis didn’t reply right then, so Marcel took his time cleaning the kitchen until his stainless steel appliances and marble countertops gleamed. Maybe he had met the man who would change his life forever, but deep down, Marcel would always be a neat freak.

Marcel went about his daily chores, watering his plants that sat beside his picture window overlooking the city, and gathering up clothes for laundry. He had Rhapsody in Blue stuck on a loop in his head.

Marcel’s first instinct after leaving the gala (besides texting Louis) had been to call Zayn, gushing about his evening. But it was after midnight and Marcel knew Zayn liked his sleep. So when the clock finally read 11:30 am, Marcel picked up the phone to dial his best friend. Zayn answered on the third ring.

“Hello?” Zayn’s familiar voice rasped sleepily.

“Don’t tell me you’re still sleeping,” Marcel said by way of greeting. “It’s almost noon.”

He could hear Zayn sigh into his phone. “Don’t tell  _ me _ you’re cleaning your kitchen again.”

“Ha!” Marcel scoffed, glad that he had moved on to sorting the laundry. “No, actually I’m not.”

“Okay,” Zayn replied, and Marcel could hear him shifting around his bed as he spoke. “So what are you doing that has you in such a good mood this early?”

Marcel ignored the fact that Zayn thought this was early, and bit his lip. “Umm, you’ll never guess,” Marcel hedged nervously.

“You finally booked a much-needed holiday?” Zayn guessed. “You’re wearing your favorite sweater vest?”

Marcel snorted a laugh. “No, and no.”

“Ok, then what’s going on, babe?”

“I, um. Spoke to someone last night. At the gala.”

“Really? Who?” Zayn asked, voice perking up a bit.

“Louis Tomlinson,” Marcel said, on a rush of breath. He bit his lip and waited for Zayn’s response.

And waited. And waited.

“Zayn? Are you there?” Marcel fretted.

“Are you serious?” Zayn finally asked, and Marcel sighed in relief.

“Totally serious,” Marcel replied, unable to stop his smile.

“You…Marcel, did you really? Wow!” Zayn said, struggling to form a coherent sentence.

“I did. And, um, we sat together at dinner,” Marcel continued.

“You what?!”

“Yeah. And um, I got his number at the end of the night.”

“Babe, hold on. This is big. What did you talk about?”

“Um,” Marcel trailed off, slightly embarrassed. “Dancing. Food. Superheroes. Wearing tights.”

Zayn sighed, and Marcel knew he was burying his face in his hands. “Oh my god.”

“It was fun!” Marcel protested, giggling a little. “I had fun.”

“Are you going to see him again?” Zayn pressed, sounding amazed.

“I…don’t know,” Marcel admitted, looking down at his feet. “I didn’t ask.”

“Okay,” Zayn said with determination. “I’m coming over.”

*

Within twenty minutes, Zayn was knocking on Marcel’s door. When Marcel opened it, suddenly feeling nervous about talking things out, he didn’t worry long. Wordlessly, Zayn wrapped Marcel in a crushing hug in greeting. When Zayn pulled back, he was grinning.

“Look at you, huh? Meeting guys, getting their numbers…wow, Marcel.”

Marcel blushed at the compliment and gestured for Zayn to join him in the kitchen. “Um, I guess,” he chuckled, going to check the oven. “Hope you’re hungry; I made cookies.”

Zayn raised his eyebrows, pleasantly surprised. “Chocolate chip?”

“What else? Have a seat.”

Zayn sat down at the breakfast nook, settling into the chair. Late morning sunlight streamed in through the window, and Zayn smiled at the warmth.

There was companionable silence as Marcel pulled the cookies out of the oven and let them cool on the countertop. When he joined Zayn at the table, holding a plate of fresh cookies, Zayn’s face lit up. He reached for a cookie, hissing at how hot it still was.

“So,” Zayn said, blowing on his burned fingers, “you’ve cleaned your kitchen. The place is spotless. And you made cookies. Now…spill.”

Marcel nervously adjusted the glasses perched on his nose and smiled shyly. “I, um. Don’t know where to start.”

“Start at the beginning,” Zayn recommended patiently. “How did you meet Louis?”

At the mention of his name, Marcel blushed and smiled down at the table. “So, um. I was talking to the Smiths—something about their daughter going to medical school—and he just…walked over. Carrying drinks. He said hello to the Smiths, and then looked at me, and I…I just…”

“Yes?” Zayn asked eagerly, perched excitedly on the edge of his seat.

“I…told him I’ve been watching him,” Marcel remembered with horror. He groaned and averted his eyes in embarrassment. “Watching him dance, you know? I didn’t mean…”

“Oh god,” Zayn sighed, burying his face in his hands. “I can’t. I can’t even look at you.”

Marcel snickered and shrugged. “It turned out okay, though. I recovered smoothly.”

Zayn peeked between his fingers, leveling Marcel with a look of disbelief.

“…Okay, I recovered, not so smoothly,” Marcel conceded, “and we started talking.”

“And?” Zayn asked, hesitantly lowering his hands to stare fully at Marcel.

“And we talked all night,” Marcel said, grinning at the memory. “He’s so…Zayn, he’s just so, so  _ special _ . He loves his family and can’t cook and wants to open his own dance studio one day.”

Zayn’s expression melted into a smile. “That’s awesome, Marcel. So you got his number?”

“Yeah!” Marcel exclaimed, still awed by his own tenacity. “And I texted him.”

“And? What did he say?”

“Just…you know, stuff. We’ve been chatting some today,” Marcel explained. “I’m actually waiting to hear back from him now. He must be busy.”

Zayn opened his mouth to reply, but suddenly Marcel’s phone signaled a notification. Marcel was out of his seat before he even knew it, reaching for his phone on the counter. He eagerly opened the message and read it, expression changing from excitement to mild dread.

“What did he say?” Zayn asked.

“He…he wants to go to dinner? With me?”

“Good! What did you say?”

“I don’t know what to say,” Marcel fretted, picking at his bottom lip.

“Do you want to go?” Zayn asked, slightly confused.

“Yes.”

“Then say yes. What’s wrong?”

“I just. There’s so many ways I’m bound to embarrass myself in public, Zayn. You know this. Last week, I spilled a whole glass of red wine on our food. And that was just the first course.”

Zayn bit his lip, considering a reply. “Okay, so…invite him over here. If it’s just you two, in a familiar place, you won’t be so nervous.”

Marcel’s troubled expression brightened. “Yeah, I like that!” He busied himself with typing a reply to Louis while Zayn swiped another cookie from the plate.

“Tomorrow night,” Marcel read when Louis replied. He looked up, eyes wide. “Tomorrow night? Zayn! I’ve got so much to do now!”

Zayn frowned, looking around at the spotless flat. “Not really, babe. Relax, okay? Make a list for dinner ingredients and just run to the store. You got this.”

Marcel took a deep breath, then let it out. He turned to face Zayn, still doubtful. “Really?”

“Really, really,” Zayn smiled. “It’ll be fun, you’ll see.”

“Okay,” Marcel replied, staring at his phone screen. “Fun. Yes.”

“Now,” Zayn said, straightening up in his chair in excitement. What are you going to wear?”

*

After analyzing outfit choices for the date (“not a date, Zayn—it’s just dinner”), Marcel ran down to the store to get ingredients for his favorite pasta dish. He did some last-minute cleaning, rearranged some pillows on the couch, and made a playlist he may or may not have named Louis’ Songs.

Throughout all this, Marcel and Louis kept up a steady conversation by text. Louis was busy in the studio rehearsing for the next Royal Ballet performance, but during breaks he liked to chat with Marcel. Late that night, as Marcel sat at his piano bench trying to calm his nerves, he received another message.

_ Happy Feet: If a dancer falls in the studio, and no one is around to hear him, does he still make a sound? _

Marcel’s eyes widened in alarm.

_ Are you ok?? Ouch! _

Louis typed a quick reply.

_ Happy Feet: Yeah, I’ll be fine lol. Ego is a bit bruised is all. _

Marcel grinned and replied.

_ Remember, I fell up the stairs at the opera house. UP. _

Marcel smiled as he set his phone down beside his latest sheet music—Gershwin, since it had been in his head for days—and began playing Rhapsody in Blue. Marcel had a feeling he would always associate this song with Louis now. He was okay with that.

Louis’ reply came ten minutes later when Marcel was getting ready for bed.

_ Happy Feet: Safely home, with ice on my ankle. Good times. We still on for tomorrow? _

Marcel felt butterflies in his stomach thinking about seeing Louis again. It was just dinner, he told himself—nothing fancy. It would be fun. Marcel slid into bed and replied.

_ If you’re in, I’m in. _

_ Happy Feet: great! Then I’ll see you at 7:00. Sweet dreams! :) _

Marcel grinned and typed out a reply in the darkness, then set his glasses on the night stand and went to sleep.

_ Sweet dreams, Lou. See you tomorrow! _

_ * _

Marcel was so preoccupied the next day with cooking and texting Zayn in mild panic that he never changed into his date outfit. When Louis rang his doorbell at precisely 7 pm, Marcel was still in an old white button up, half untucked, and casual slacks. He was monitoring several pots on the stove and a cake in the oven when Louis arrived.

Marcel gasped and looked down at his clothes to assess the damage. Initially, it was hard to see because the steam from the stove had fogged up his glasses; he stepped back and let them clear up. Marcel was dismayed to see a wrinkled shirt with a distinct pasta sauce stain on it, unevenly cuffed up sleeves, and some of his oldest shoes. It would have to do, though.

Marcel checked that everything was simmering nicely on the stove, and then went to open the door. He promptly forgot to breathe.

Because there Louis stood, looking flawlessly cool in nice jeans and a leather jacket, hair perfectly styled, holding a bottle of wine. And smiling. God, that smile would be the death of Marcel.

Louis raised his eyebrows, still smiling politely, and Marcel realized he was just staring.

“Oops, hi! Please come in,” Marcel exclaimed, gesturing for Louis to enter.

Louis said hello and presented the bottle of wine. “I had a feeling you like sweet rather than dry.”

Marcel chuckled. “You would be correct. Come on in. Sorry I’m a mess; I lost track of time,” he lamented. “You look really nice.”

“Thank you,” Louis murmured, following Marcel into the kitchen. “Wow…you have a lovely home.”

Marcel looked over his shoulder to see Louis staring at the picture window. “Oh, thank you!”

“And is that a baby grand piano? Oh my god. It’s beautiful.”

Marcel blushed at the compliment. “Thank you. It’s, um, really special to me.”

“I didn’t know you played!” Louis accused, whirling around to face Marcel with a mischievous smile. “Play me a song?”

“I…”

“Please?”

“Um…I don’t know if…maybe? After dinner?” Marcel stammered. “I just play for fun. I’m not very good.”

Louis narrowed his eyes. “Right. Well, absolutely, after dinner. I won’t let you forget.”

Marcel smiled nervously. “Okay.”

“So,” Louis continued, striding towards Marcel with a slight limp, “what other secret talents do I not know about?”

Marcel’s mind went blank for a moment, and before he could process it, he was replying.

“Idon’thaveagagreflex.”

Marcel’s eyes popped open, and he slapped a hand over his mouth in horror.

“ _ Shit.  _ I mean, sorry. Why are you limping?  _ Shit.  _ I mean, umm…”

Louis’ face creased into an amused grin, and he chuckled. “Hey, it’s okay. Let’s see, um…I am limping from my fall in the studio, nothing major. Should be fine to go back tomorrow. And as for the first thing…”

“Please never speak of it again,” Marcel groaned, dropping his face into his hands. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’ll tell you this, you certainly know how to make a night memorable,” Louis admitted with a small smile.

“Yes, and I’m  _ so  _ sorry about that. I’m actually quite boring; don’t know what’s gotten into me.”

“Hmm,” Louis said, stepping close enough to touch Marcel. “Nothing a little wine can’t fix.”

“Wine! Yes. I’ll open it, hold on. Please have a seat,” Marcel said, striding into the kitchen.

“Can I help with anything?” Louis asked, pulling out a chair at the table.

“Nope,” Marcel replied confidently, rummaging in a drawer for the wine opener. “It’s almost ready. Do you like—aha! Found it—sorry, do you like Italian? I should have asked.”

“Absolutely,” Louis nodded, watching Marcel flit around the kitchen. “Sounds great.”

“Good,” Marcel sighed in relief, carefully uncorking the wine.

“Here, where are the glasses?” Louis asked, rising from the table.

Marcel gestured to a top cabinet, and Louis retrieved two glasses.

“Thank you,” Marcel said. He poured them each a glass, then flashed Louis a smile. “This will go nicely with the pasta.”

Louis took a sip of his wine, then smiled. “It’s like,  _ really  _ sweet. Hope that’s okay.”

Marcel tasted his wine, then returned the smile. “I like it. Riesling?”

“You know your wines,” Louis observed with an impressed smile. “Nice.”

“Thanks,” Marcel replied with a shy smile. “Want to have a seat? Dinner’s ready.”

Louis nodded enthusiastically and took their wine glasses to the table. He watched as Marcel served up helpings of pasta, vegetables, and garlic bread onto plates. Marcel checked the oven, nodded, and then brought the plates to the table.

“It’s, um. Chicken carbonara, with grilled veggies. Nothing fancy,” Marcel said, placing a plate in front of Louis.

Louis took a delicate sniff, then looked up at Marcel with a bright smile. “Marcel, this is amazing! I can’t cook for shit. Wow.”

Marcel grinned and sat down. “What do you eat then?”

Louis twirled some pasta neatly around his fork. “Let’s see…take away, sandwiches, more take away, and sometimes I get lucky and my roommate cooks.”

Marcel’s jaw dropped. “Okay, Louis. I’m cooking for you from now on.”

Louis flashed Marcel a smile, blue eyes twinkling. “Careful, I might hold you to that.”

“Fine with me. I’ll sleep better knowing you’re eating well.”

Louis snickered and dug into his dinner. “Really, this is amazing. Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Marcel replied with a content smile.

They enjoyed dinner together, occasionally talking about family, friends, and growing up. Marcel lost track of time, only measuring time had passed by how empty the wine bottle got as the night progressed.

Marcel brought out the cake, chocolate with caramel sauce drizzled on top, and Louis gasped.

“Cake too? Marcel, wow. You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.”

“Was no trouble. I love to cook,” Marcel said with a small smile. “Usually, it’s just me, or sometimes Zayn, so this was fun.”

“He sounds cool,” Louis said, clearly enjoying his cake. “Zayn. And you’ve known him since school?”

“Yep,” Marcel said with a fond grin. “We were kind of an odd pair. He was super cool, and I was just…you know,” Marcel trailed off, gesturing to his appearance.

“What?” Louis asked curiously. “What do you mean?”

“I, um. I was a nerd. Kind of grew into it better as I got older, but yeah…in school, I stood out.”

Louis frowned. “Kids are dumbasses in school, Marcel. Forget them. And besides, look how great you turned out!”

Marcel’s jaw dropped. “Me?”

Louis smiled fondly. “Yes, you. You should be really proud of yourself, Marcel.”

Marcel was speechless for a moment. “I…thank you, Louis. Wow,” he breathed.

Louis met his eyes and nodded. “Anytime.”

For a moment, Marcel and Louis just stared at each other. Then they both spoke.

“More wine?”

“Piano?”

They raised their brows in surprise, then laughed in unison.

“Sorry, what did you say?” Marcel asked, still chuckling.

“Um, piano? If you really don’t mind?” Louis proposed. “I’d love to hear you play.”

“I…okay,” Marcel said, and realized he was okay. Better than, in fact.

They stood and walked into the lounge, where Marcel’s piano stood. Marcel straightened the sheet music on the stand, then sat down.

“I just got this the other day, so don’t judge too much,” he quipped. “The music, I mean.”

“Listen, I’m already impressed, okay?” Louis assured him. “I can’t play anything.”

“I could teach you,” Marcel blurted out, then winced. “Sorry, I mean. I know you’re insanely busy.”

Louis cracked a smile. “Maybe someday. Are you gonna tell me the song, or do I get to guess?”

Marcel smiled as he stretched his fingers and settled on the bench. “Guess.”

When Marcel played the opening notes, he could only see Louis standing in his peripheral. His eyes flicked back to the page, although he had fairly memorized the song by now. He continued to play the introduction, waiting for the familiar passage that Louis would easily guess.

“Hmm,” Louis mused softly, delicately leaning against the side of the piano. “Keep playing, I’ve almost got it.”

Marcel grinned at his sheet music but kept playing. When Marcel’s graceful fingers played a more familiar melody, Louis gasped and clapped his hands.

“Oh! I know! It’s Rhapsody in Blue!”

Marcel nodded and played a few more bars, smiling contently.

“Wow,” Louis murmured softly. “You’re really good.”

“Thanks,” Marcel whispered, ducking his head.

“Keep playing?” Louis asked politely.

“’Kay,” Marcel replied, turning the page. As he played further into the song, he could see Louis walking around the side of the piano until he was directly behind Marcel. He was confused until he felt two gentle hands cover his glasses. Marcel’s fingers stilled on the keys, and Louis leaned closer until his mouth brushed Marcel’s ear.

“You can play without looking,” he whispered.

Marcel could feel Louis’ body heat at his back, and his pulse raced. He could indeed play without looking, but all his nerve endings felt electrified.

“Please?” Louis asked, close enough that Marcel could smell the chocolate and wine on his breath.

Marcel could only nod, holding his breath, and slowly, quietly, he began to play again. He wondered how long it would take Louis to notice it was a different song.

After a few moments, Marcel could feel rather than see Louis’ cheek lift into a smile.

“That,” Louis whispered, soft lips brushing the shell of Marcel’s ear, “is Clair de Lune. And you,” he continued, slowly lowering his slender hands from Marcel’s eyes, “are a cheater.”

Marcel grinned and laughed softly, playing a few more bars of the song. “Am not.”

Louis leaned back, then came around to sit beside Marcel on the bench. “Are so.”

Marcel’s fingers stilled on the keys once more, and he turned to face Louis. Louis was smiling, a soft, fond expression, and his eyes looked midnight blue in the warm light of the lounge. It stole Marcel’s breath for a moment.

When he recovered, all he could rasp was, “What?”

Louis smiled enigmatically and shook his head. “You’re really something, Marcel Styles.”

Marcel blushed and shrugged. “I did cheat.”

Louis nodded slowly, eyes never leaving Marcel’s. “You did. Guess you owe me a rematch.”

“Next time?” Marcel asked hopefully.

Louis’ smile widened until his eyes crinkled in the corners. “Deal.”

Marcel opened his mouth to reply, and his phone buzzed in the kitchen.

“Everything okay?” Louis asked.

“Yeah,” Marcel said, blushing again. “I promised Zayn I would check in tonight to assure him you weren’t a serial killer.”

Louis threw his head back and laughed. “Fair enough.”

Marcel sighed, the moment clearly over, and shuffled to the kitchen to text Zayn. When he set his phone back down, Louis was leaning against the doorframe.

“I’ve actually got rehearsal tomorrow morning, so I should head home,” he said.

Marcel nodded, surprised to find it was after midnight. “Right! Of course. I’ll, um, walk you out.”

Together, they crossed the room to the front door.

“So…text me tomorrow?” Louis asked, shrugging on his jacket.

“I will,” Marcel promised. “Get home safe.”

“I will,” Louis assured him with a parting smile. “And thanks for dinner, Marcel. It was really great.”

“My pleasure,” Marcel nodded.

Louis gave Marcel a sleepy smile, then walked out the door. “Goodnight.”

“Night, Louis,” Marcel replied, stifling a yawn himself. He watched as Louis shuffled down the hall to the elevator, then turned and waved farewell. Marcel waved back, then softly closed the door.

Marcel spared a thought for his messy kitchen, and in a rare move, bypassed it completely to head to bed. The mess would still be there tomorrow, he reasoned drowsily. Marcel didn’t even take a shower. He simply undressed, placed his phone on the night stand with his glasses, and crawled into bed. It was a happy kind of exhausted for Marcel. And if he dozed off with thoughts of Louis’ delicate hands tracing his face, who could blame him?

*

As Louis walked into the Royal Ballet studio the next morning, shaking off the cold, he noticed two things: one, his ankle still smarted from his fall during the last practice. And two, he was not alone in the studio.

As he rounded the corner and prepared to flip the light switch, Louis realized with a start that the lights were already on. Frowning slightly, Louis shrugged and assumed that the custodian had accidentally left the lights on when he was cleaning last night. And then he took two steps into the bright studio, and froze in his steps.

There was a man, about his age or younger, reclining against the barre in a hoodie and track pants, scrolling through his phone. Louis’ movements caught his eye, and the young man glanced up and broke into a grin.

“Louis Tomlinson!” he exclaimed, standing up straight and pocketing his phone.

Louis stood stock still, completely confused. He was sure he had never seen this man before in his life. Despite his casual appearance, Louis could tell the man was a dancer, too. He had an open, sunny expression and brown hair with fading blonde highlights. And Louis just. Had no clue.

“Um, hi?” Louis replied, taking a tentative step into the room. “Alright?”

The man laughed like Louis had told a hilarious joke, then strode across the dance floor, extending a hand.

“Sorry, I’m sure you’re wondering who the hell I am,” the man quipped with that same easy grin. “Niall Horan, nice to meet you.”

“Pleased to meet you too. Um, so…” Louis trailed off, shaking the offered hand, still uncertain as to what Niall was doing here.

“I’m your understudy,” Niall said, wiggling his eyebrows playfully in the following silence.

“My…what?” Louis asked, eyes wide.

Niall nodded, and his smile was self-deprecating. “Understudy. Take it you’ve never heard of me. Don’t worry. I won’t get in your way.”

Louis, still stunned, struggled to form coherent words. “But…I’m not…sick?”

Niall winked, then cast a knowing glance down at Louis’ ankle. “Heard you had a tumble, though.”

Louis’ jaw dropped. “How did you…how could you possibly..?”

“I know people,” Niall shrugged. “It’s the Irish charm.”

“But,” Louis said, slowly shaking his head, “no one was here!”

“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong, mate,” Niall replied jovially. “Don’t feel bad, though. We all fall down sometimes. What’s important is, we get back up.”

Louis was positive he had walked into a different dimension today. “I…what?”

Niall sighed, smiling patiently. “It pays to be on a first name basis with the custodial staff, Louis.” He pulled out his phone, demonstrating someone had texted him. “Got the bat signal this morning.”

“The custodial…you know Steve?” Louis said, slowly connecting the dots.

“Course I know Steve, who doesn’t? Great guy, posts the cutest videos of his cats on Instagram,” Niall said.

“Cats…Instagram…ok,” Louis said a little weakly, moving to sit down on the bench beside the door.

“Good idea,” Niall said, politely taking Louis’ dance bag and placing it on the floor by the bench. “Take a load off, mate, rest that leg.”

“I wasn’t…I’m really fine, Niall. You didn’t have to come all the way here, sorry to say.”

Niall gave Louis a knowing look. “If you were me, wouldn’t you do the same? You never know when your big break is going to come, right?”

“But I’m fine? It’s just a little twisted ankle. I’m sure we’ve both had worse.”

“Of course,” Niall agreed easily, shrugging out of his hoodie. “But better safe than sorry.”

“What are you doing?” Louis asked, feeling a little dizzy at this conversation.

“Dancing,” Niall winked again, and then promptly pulled off his track pants to reveal a pair of black tights.

“Niall, I really appreciate your help, but I don’t think you can just volunteer to be an understudy,” Louis said.

Niall chuckled, beginning to stretch his legs. “Who said anything about volunteering?”

“You mean…someone gave you this job?”

“Well, I didn’t wander in off the streets after watching Cirque du Soleil once,” Niall replied good naturedly. He continued stretching as if it were a normal rehearsal.

“Makes sense,” Louis admitted slowly, watching Niall sink down into a splits. Louis had never had an understudy before—but then again, he had never been a principal before.

“Now,” Niall said, lithely rising from the splits to stand before Louis. “Here’s what we’ll do. You just show me the steps for the first pas de deux, and we’ll go from there. Nothing fancy. Don’t strain your ankle. We don’t want you on crutches for the rest of the season.”

Louis, who had never thought of his minor injury as show stopping, grew concerned. “You think it’s really that bad?” he asked, sticking out his ankle.

Niall shrugged. “Let’s find out. Do you have the music?”

Louis sighed, resigned to his fate, and pulled out his phone to find the pas de deux music. “Just so you know,” Louis said conversationally, clicking “play” and standing to strip down to his dance clothes, “this is the weirdest rehearsal I’ve ever had.”

Niall chuckled and patted Louis on the shoulder. “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

*

An hour later, Louis and Niall the understudy were both panting, coated in a sheen of sweat. The music, which had been playing on repeat, was permanently ingrained in Louis’ brain. His ankle, after a gentle warm up and low-impact rehearsing, felt fine. And he had a newfound appreciation for Niall Horan.

Niall himself danced as easily and effervescently as he talked. He picked up the steps in no time, and now the two were sprawled on the floor taking a much-needed break.

Louis’ phone signaled a text notification, and he groaned as he sat up and reached for it. He opened the message, only to find it was from Marcel.

_ Mr. GQ: Good morning! How’s your rehearsal going? Hope the ankle is ok. _

Louis smiled, momentarily forgetting Niall’s presence, as he pondered a response. He typed a reply, changed the pas de deux music to a more modern playlist, and sank back down on the studio floor.

_ Good morning! Ankle is on the mend, thanks. How are you today? _

Louis waited for Marcel’s reply and cast a glance at Niall, only to find him already staring.

“What?” Louis asked curiously.

“Girlfriend?” Niall asked knowingly, nodding toward the phone in Louis’ hand.

Louis chuckled and shook his head. “No. We’re just friends.”

“Mhm. That’s why you’ve got that melt-y look on your face,” Niall countered.

“Melt-y?” Louis asked, propping himself up on an elbow. “What does that mean?”

Niall smiled. “It’s when you’re so gone for someone that when you think of them, your face just kind of…melts.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Hey, I don’t make the rules, mate. I’m just saying. Melt-y.”

Louis laughed in spite of his exhaustion and confusion. “Niall, where did you come from?”

“Ireland?” Niall replied.

“Yeah, but like,” Louis said, “you’re just…different. It’s nice.”

Niall’s smile brightened even more if possible. “Aww, Louis. Are we having a moment? Should we take a selfie?”

“…and the moment is over,” Louis deadpanned.

Niall laughed. “Okay, up you go. Let’s try it one more time, from the top. Then I’ll show you that video of Steve’s cats.”

Louis grinned up at the ceiling, realizing he hadn’t had this much fun at a Royal Ballet rehearsal, ever. He slowly stood up, and turned the music back to the pas de deux melody. He couldn’t wait to tell Marcel about his day.

*

After their rehearsal together, Louis and Niall exchanged numbers. Niall might not be fulfilling his role as understudy this time, as Louis’ ankle turned out to be fine, but he turned out to be a great friend. Over the next few days, Louis and Niall planned a pub night.

_ Bring your not-girlfriend _ , Niall texted with the heart eyes emoji.  _ The one that makes you melt-y. _

_ He has a name, you know,  _ Louis replied, grinning.  _ Marcel. _

_ Okay, then,  _ Niall replied back.  _ You, me, and Marcel. It’s a date. _

When Louis broached the topic with Marcel, he was pleased to find that Marcel was open to the idea.

“Maybe I could bring Zayn?” he asked on the phone that night. “That way Niall’s not the odd man out.”

“Sure, great idea,” Louis answered. “It’ll be fun.”

Louis spent the next few days in intense rehearsal, spending his free time texting Marcel and FaceTiming with his mother in Doncaster. Louis tried to speak to her a couple times a week, still feeling homesick for his family years after leaving them.

His mother, Jay, was already taken with Marcel, without ever having met him.

“We’re just friends, mum,” Louis explained patiently for the fifth time one night. “Really.”

“Whatever you say, love,” Jay said with a knowing smile. “But you just get a little bit…I don’t know,  _ soft  _ when you talk about him.”

Louis sighed. “Melt-y?” he guessed, silently cursing Niall.

Jay’s expression brightened, and she nodded. “Exactly!”

*

Louis met Marcel outside the pub on the night they had all agreed on. He knew it was Marcel from behind, just from the understated stylishness of his clothes and the way his tall frame stooped slightly, as if he was trying to make himself smaller. Louis smiled fondly and approached him.

“You look cold, love,” Louis said in greeting. At the sound of Louis’ voice, Marcel turned, a smile already blooming on his face.

“Just a bit,” Marcel admitted. “My glasses are going to fog up when we go inside.”

Louis chuckled and offered Marcel his arm. “I’ll lead you, then. Ready?”

“Sure,” Marcel said, linking his arm with Louis’. “Zayn will be here in ten.”

“Great,” Louis replied. “Niall’s on his way. Let’s grab a table.”

They walked inside, immediately drenched in the warmth and liveliness of the pub. It was busy, but not too crowded, and Louis and Marcel wove through the crowd to a vacant table in the corner.

Marcel shrugged off his black coat, revealing a black button up and a tan sweater vest. It really shouldn’t have been hot, but Louis was well aware of the effect Marcel had on him by now. He didn’t realize he was openly staring until Marcel called his name.

“Lou?” he asked curiously, straightening his black framed glasses on his handsome face. “Alright?”

He honestly had no idea of how much he affected Louis. It was really no wonder Louis started blushing.

“I, um. Fine! I’m fine, thanks.” Louis peeled off his own coat and sat down across from Marcel. “You look nice,” he said, trying to recover smoothly.

“You always say that,” Marcel replied with a shy smile.

“Well, it’s always true,” Louis countered, mirroring Marcel’s smile.

“Thank you. So do you. Look nice, I mean,” Marcel stammered.

Louis had never been so endeared in his life. He opened his mouth to reply, but he was interrupted by a now-familiar voice.

“Hey, Tommo! Freezing out there, eh?”

Louis turned to see Niall approaching, bundled up in a coat and scarf. He waved in greeting and stood to hug Niall.

“Long time, no see,” Louis quipped, patting Niall on the back.

Niall chuckled. “Yeah, yeah. Now enough chatting, I want to see this fellow of yours.”

Louis blushed under Niall’s gaze, feeling Marcel’s eyes on him as well. “Oh god. Alright.” Louis turned to face Marcel, then said, “Marcel Styles, Niall Horan. Niall, Marcel.”

Niall stretched out a hand for Marcel to shake, beaming. “ _ The  _ Marcel? Finally! Pleased to meet you.”

Marcel blinked, wide eyed, still shaking Niall’s hand. “Wow, um. Nice to meet you, too.”

Louis gestured for Niall to sit down, and together they all settled into the booth. Louis’ eyes flickered to Marcel’s, only to find him staring curiously.

“The Marcel?” Marcel mouthed silently, cutting his eyes towards Niall.

Louis blushed a deeper pink and nodded. He was saved from any further comments by the arrival of Zayn.

Zayn breezed into the pub, eyes scanning the room for familiar faces, and several people stopped mid-conversation to watch him pass. Zayn seemed oblivious, and Louis had a moment of mild panic. If Marcel saw someone as amazing as Zayn on a daily basis, what would he want with Louis?

Marcel waved Zayn over, and Niall whistled under his breath. “Good lord. Jesus.”

Zayn arrived at the table, smiling politely, and Marcel stood to introduce him. “Hi,” he greeted Zayn, then turned around to face the others. “Zayn, this is Niall.” Zayn extended a hand to shake, and for once the talkative Niall could only nod in greeting. “And this, he said, gesturing to Louis, “is Louis Tomlinson.”

Zayn offered a hand to shake, and Louis took it with a nervous smile. “Nice to meet you, Louis. Both of you,” he said, nodding at Niall, who was openly staring at Zayn.

“Pleased to meet you,” Louis murmured. He shot a confused glance at Niall, and found him blushing bright pink.

Zayn offered to get the first round, and vanished to the bar. As soon as he was out of earshot, Louis leaned closer to Niall and whispered, “What the hell?”

It seemed to break Niall out of his spell, and Niall turned slowly to face Louis. “Oh god. Did I say something embarrassing?” he fretted.

“You didn’t say anything at all,” Louis admitted, concern growing. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” Niall hissed under his breath. “Did you  _ see _ him? He’s…I can’t describe it.”

“Dazzling?” Marcel suggested, with a wry smile.

“Exactly!” Niall gasped. “Dazzling,” he repeated reverently.

Louis slowly turned from Niall to Marcel, who was giving Louis that soft, private smile.

“He doesn’t know he’s doing it,” Marcel said apologetically, gesturing to where Zayn had stood a moment ago. “Deep down, he’s just a nerd like me.”

“I happen to like nerds,” Louis replied, smiling at Marcel. “One in particular.”

Niall found his voice again and chuckled. “We can see that, Louis.”

Louis sighed in exasperation and turned to face Niall. “One word: dazzling.”

Marcel snorted a laugh across the table, and Niall blushed crimson. “Can you blame me? Look at him?”

“Look at who?” Zayn replied, returning with their drinks.

Niall froze up, blue eyes wide with panic. “Um…I…I mean, thank you. For the drink.”

Zayn grinned easily. “Anytime. So, Marcel says you’re a dancer, too?”

“I…um…” Niall trailed off, appearing to be hypnotized by Zayn’s eyes.

Louis kicked Niall’s shin under the table. Niall in turn gasped and glared at Louis. “What was that for?”

Louis sighed and turned his attention to Zayn. “Sorry, mate, he’s gonna need a pint in him to get talking.”

Zayn slid into the booth next to Marcel with a confused smile. “Okay?”

“So,” Marcel said, mercifully changing the subject. “Louis, did I tell you Zayn is a ballet fan as well?”

Louis raised his eyebrows in pleasant surprise. “Really?” he asked, turning to Zayn.

“Yeah, mate,” Zayn replied, lifting his drink in salute. “Saw your performance earlier this season. Well done, seriously.”

Louis smiled gratefully. “Thank you! It’s been a great season so far.”

“Marcel actually noticed you first,” Zayn said with a playful smile. “And he’s a ballet expert, so take that as a compliment.”

Louis glanced at Marcel, who was blushing behind his drink. “Wow! Thank you!” Louis replied.

Now it was Marcel’s turn to look mortified. He took a healthy-sized gulp of his drink, then smiled as the alcohol hit his bloodstream. He met Louis’ eyes, and nodded shyly.

By the second round of drinks, everyone had loosened up and gotten into a deep discussion about—what else?—superheroes. A DC versus Marvel discussion followed. By the third round of drinks, Niall was resting his head on Louis’ shoulder and staring openly at Zayn again. Louis met Marcel’s eyes across the table and winked.

“So, Niall,” Louis said conversationally, curling his arm around Niall. “Tell everyone how we met.”

Niall snickered into Louis’ shoulder, then sat up a bit. “You mean, how you discovered you had an understudy? Let’s do this.”

Niall launched into the story of meeting Louis for the first time in the studio, including their pas de deux together and bonding over cat videos. By the end of it, Louis, Marcel, and Zayn were laughing out loud.

“That’s awesome,” Zayn grinned at Niall. “I think my favorite part is, ‘I didn’t just come in off the streets after watching Cirque du Soleil once.’”

“He was so sure I was just a random dude!” Niall exclaimed, grinning back. “I had to dance for my life.”

Louis rolled his eyes fondly at Niall. He glanced at Marcel, and saw that he was smiling at the exchange between Niall and Zayn, too. Louis was glad everyone was turning out to have a good time.

The next day was Sunday, and Louis technically had the day off, but he had plans to hit the studio just for a while. Around midnight, he said his goodbyes to the group, making plans to get together again soon. Marcel stood to walk him out.

Outside in the startling cold, Louis turned to Marcel with a smile. “Thanks for coming tonight. It was really fun.”

Marcel smiled back. “It really was. Can I give you a lift home?”

Louis shook his head. “No, thanks, I’m gonna walk off this buzz and then go to bed.”

“Text me when you get home?” Marcel asked.

“Of course. Goodnight,” Louis said, realizing his expression was indeed melt-y. Oh well. He was smiling as he turned to walk back to his flat, and he was still smiling, although freezing, when he crawled into bed and sent a quick text to Marcel.

_ Home safe. Have a good night! xx _

Marcel’s message came seconds later.

_ Mr. GQ: Goodnight, Lou. PS-) You know who’s really dazzling? _

_ Who?  _ Louis replied curiously.

_ Mr. GQ: You. xx _

Louis grinned down at his cracked phone screen, then turned over to go to sleep, smile still in place. He vowed next time he saw Marcel, whenever that was, that he would show him just how dazzling he was to Louis.

*

It’s not that Marcel was nervous. He wasn’t. Distractedly, he checked his phone for the fifth time in a minute. Nothing.

Marcel had nothing to be nervous about, after all. Zayn was coming over, which wasn’t unusual. He hadn’t said why, though, and that was unusual.

So Marcel was cleaning. It started off innocently enough; he had just finished eating lunch when Zayn had texted asking if he could come over. Marcel replied back in the affirmative, and began cleaning up his lunch dishes. And then he started overthinking.

Before he knew it, Marcel was dusting the piano. You know, just in case Louis came over again and wanted to hear him play. (Marcel was still reeling from the sensation of Louis’ delicate hands covering his eyes while he played Rhapsody in Blue.) From the piano, Marcel then dusted the surfaces of all the furniture. And then he had scrubbed the bathroom. When he finally took a break, it was just to begin cooking his and Zayn’s dinner.

Needless to say, when Zayn arrived later that evening, Marcel was a bundle of nerves. Zayn took  one look at him, raised his perfectly sculpted brows, and wrapped Marcel in a hug.

“Babe,” he sighed, stepping inside the flat. “You’re a wreck. What’s wrong?”

Marcel studied his shoes uncertainly. “You tell me.”

Zayn paused, then shook his head. “My text stressed you out,” he guessed.

Marcel nodded minutely.

“Oh god, Marce, I’m sorry. I didn’t think…” he trailed off.

“It’s okay, I’ve just been cooking dinner,” Marcel tried to shrug it off.

“And cleaning? Is that furniture polish I smell?”

Marcel grimaced. “Maybe.”

“Oh babe, I’m sorry I got you worked up for nothing. Honestly, nothing’s wrong. I just wanted to talk about something. Come on, let’s sit down.”

Marcel led Zayn into the kitchen, where a roast was simmering in the oven. They sat down at the breakfast nook, and Marcel picked nervously at his lip.

“So…” Marcel trailed off. “Um, what’s up?”

Zayn took a deep breath and let it out. “Okay, it’s nothing bad. I’ve just been thinking.”

“Okay?”

“About you…and Louis.”

Marcel’s eyes snapped up in surprise. “Louis?”

Zayn nodded solemnly. “Yeah. After hanging out together the other night, I couldn’t help but notice…”

“Yes?” Marcel asked, on the edge of his seat.

“Marcel, I think you’re dating,” Zayn said on an exhale. “Like, for real.”

“Dating? Me and Louis?” Marcel gasped. “What?”

“I think so, yeah,” Zayn confirmed with a nod.

“Zayn…I think I’d know if I was dating someone,” Marcel replied skeptically.

“Are you sure, babe? Really. Think about it.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Look. You text or call each other all the time. You hang out. You cook for him,” Zayn explained.

“But…if that was the case, then aren’t you and I dating?”

Zayn sighed and hung his head. “Marcel.”

“Zayn.”

“I’m just saying, have you talked to Louis?”

“About us dating? No.”

“Do you want to? Be dating him?” Zayn pressed, leaning closer.

“I…I don’t know. Maybe. Yes. Maybe,” Marcel fretted, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes.

“Hey, it’s ok,” Zayn assured him. “You don’t have to decide right now. I just think you should consider it. Because I think you’d be good together.”

Marcel paused his fidgeting. “Really?”

“Really, really.”

“Wait…does everyone else think we’re dating?” Marcel asked.

“I mean,” Zayn hedged, “Niall might have mentioned it.”

“Niall? When did you talk to Niall?” Marcel exclaimed, sliding his glasses back on.

“The other day. Doesn’t matter.”

“Um, yes it matters! You have Niall’s number? You talk?”

“You make it sound like…like…”

“Like you’re dating?” Marcel grinned, crossing his arms triumphantly. “Well, well, well.”

Zayn groaned and buried his face in his hands. “Walked right into that one, huh?”

“Yep,” Marcel chuckled. “You did. Now, are you hungry?”

“Always,” Zayn replied with a grateful smile. “And while we eat, you can tell me more about Louis.”

“Deal.”

*

Louis should really go home.

As he scrolled through his iTunes on his cracked phone, he acknowledged that maybe he should call it a day. But. How often did Louis stumble upon a vacant studio like this? As a principal dancer, technically Louis had priority if he needed studio time, but he didn’t take advantage of that fact.

Also, this dance wasn’t going to choreograph itself. Louis selected one of his playlists and scrolled until he landed on the song he was looking for. It wasn’t necessarily a song one thought of when they thought of traditional ballet, but Louis was all about pushing boundaries. In his mind, this would be a perfect song selection for the class he would one day teach. A class of eager students like him just waiting for a chance to shine.

Louis ruffled his wilting fringe and clicked play. He strode to the center of the dancefloor and listened to the familiar rhythm. He positioned his body with one foot casually yet gracefully crossed over the other, and his arms hanging loosely at his sides. And then Freddie Mercury began to sing.

_ Pressure, pressing down on me _

_ Pressing down on you, no man asked for _

_ Under pressure _

In Louis’ head, the choreography centered around careful, quick footwork integrated with leaps. He could see it in his head, see a class of young people mastering the steps. He just had to get them out of his head onto the dancefloor. He walked through the opening sequence, which featured quick steps followed by a double pirouette. Then he paused to jot something down in the worn spiral notebook sitting next to his phone. He let the music play on as he made notes.

Louis had no idea of how much time had passed by the time he had choreographed the first three eight-count bars. Sweat was running down his hairline and back, and he paused to grab a drink of water from the bottle he brought and stretch his tired muscles. He wearily bent at the waist, letting his arms hang loose until his fingertips brushed the floor. It took some of the pressure off his neck and shoulders and stretched out his back. Louis groaned and held the position as the blood flowed to his head and he got a little dizzy.

That was how Marcel found him two minutes later.

One minute, Louis was alone in the studio, and the next, he looked up to see Marcel standing in the doorway with raised eyebrows and arms crossed. He regarded Louis carefully for a moment, until Louis came to his senses and jolted back into an upright position.

“M-Marcel?” Louis asked breathlessly. He smoothed down his messy hair and tried to look casual.

“Hi, Louis,” Marcel replied with an amused smile. “I hope I’m not interrupting…whatever it is you’re doing.”

Louis felt his cheeks heat up at Marcel’s words. “No! You’re not interrupting. I was just, um, stretching.”

Marcel nodded thoughtfully. “I see that.”

Louis took in Marcel’s attire, and suddenly felt very underdressed in his black tights and ratty grey tee. Marcel looked like a GQ photoshoot as usual, dressed in tailored black slacks, shiny black shoes, and a plum colored pea coat that must have cost more than Louis’ rent. Louis looked down at his scuffed, white ballet shoes. Yes, he had definitely looked better.

But Marcel looked as awkward as Louis felt, standing in the doorway of the studio. He uncrossed and then crossed his arms, looking as if he didn’t quite understand the use of his long limbs. Louis couldn’t help but imagine the incredible extension Marcel’s arms could have in an arabesque. He snapped back to reality when Marcel cleared his throat.

“So, um. I guess you’re wondering why I’m lurking in your doorway,” Marcel began with a wry smile.

Louis raised his eyebrows and nodded slowly. “Yes…I mean, no! You’re not lurking. What’s up?”

Marcel bit his lip and then nodded at his shoes. When he met Louis’ eyes again, the startling green looked uncertain.

“I was, um. Wondering if you’d like to have dinner again. With me. Together,” Marcel said, stumbling a little over his words.

“You want…to have dinner? With me?” Louis asked, unable to hide his excitement.

“I do. And I didn’t have any other way to get in touch with you, because my phone chose this crucial moment to die. But I had a hunch you’d be here tonight. So I just…sorry, I just barged in to talk to you,” Marcel concluded, wincing a little.

Louis’ expression softened into a smile. “Well, I’m glad you did. And, um…yes.”

“Yes?” Marcel asked with a confused frown.

“Yes,” Louis replied. “I would like to have dinner with you. Again. Together.”

Marcel looked stunned for a moment, and Louis realized he must have expected to be rejected. He couldn’t for the life of him figure out why someone as handsome and charming as Marcel would ever get turned down.

“You…okay,” Marcel said, smiling tentatively. “I’d like that.”

“So would I,” Louis said with an answering smile. And then he was at a loss for words.

“So…what are you working on tonight? Something for the next ballet?” Marcel asked politely.

“Um,” Louis began a little sheepishly, “not exactly.”

Marcel tilted his head to the right in thought. “Okay?”

Louis bit his lip, considering. “It’s, um. A project. Kind of a long-term one,” he confessed.

“That’s cool, right?” Marcel asked.

“Yeah! It is,” Louis smiled shyly. “I’m just, you know. Making plans for retirement.”

Marcel’s eyes widened. “Already? Really?”

Louis nodded with a wry smile. “Yep. I’m the planning type.”

“So what is it? The plan?” Marcel asked curiously.

Louis shrugged. “You know…the ‘start my own ballet studio’ dream.”

Marcel smiled slowly. “Well, if anyone can do it, Louis, it’s you.”

“Thanks,” Louis mumbled, shuffling his feet.

“So that’s what you’re working on?” Marcel asked. “A new dance for your class one day?”

“Yeah!” Louis grinned, meeting Marcel’s eyes. “How do you feel about Queen and David Bowie?”

Marcel considered it thoughtfully for a moment. “I think they’re sadly underrated. Like…’Somebody to Love’? That’s art, right there.”

Louis chuckled. “Right?”

“Is that the music you’re using for your dance?” Marcel asked excitedly, leaning against the doorframe.

“Mhm,” Louis confirmed with a smile. “It’s…going ok, I guess. So, what are you up to tonight?”

Marcel shrugged. “Besides lurking in your studio? Not much.”

“You gonna dance with me at the next gala?” Louis teased.

Marcel rolled his eyes. “I don’t dance.”

“Ever?” Louis asked incredulously.

“Never ever,” Marcel admitted with a grin.

“Come on. For me?” Louis wheedled.

“Louis…”

“Please? Pretty please?” Louis relented.

“What kind of dance? Ballroom?” Marcel asked with a slight frown.

“Yes. Waltz, foxtrot, mambo, even your basic slow dance,” Louis replied hopefully. “I could teach you.”

Marcel chuckled. “Many have tried, and none have succeeded.”

Louis shook his head. “Well, I haven’t tried yet.”

Marcel sighed. “Louis…”

“Really, let me teach you,” Louis continued. “You said yourself you don’t have any plans.”

Marcel’s jaw dropped. “What, now? You want to dance now?!”

Louis nodded. “I do.”

When Marcel hesitated, Louis took a step closer. “Please, Marcel? It’ll be fun.”

Marcel frowned grumpily. “Doubt it.”

“So, is that a yes?” Louis asked, clasping his hands together hopefully.

“I mean…if you have nothing else to do,” Marcel finally relented.

“Nothing at all! Come in, come in.” Louis opened his arms in welcome to usher Marcel inside. “You can leave your coat on the bench there,” he instructed.

Marcel shook his head slightly, as if in disbelief he had actually agreed to this. He shrugged out of his coat, folded it neatly, and placed it on the bench inside the door. Wordlessly, he began cuffing up the sleeves of his tailored black button up.

Louis strode across the room to his phone and scrolled through his music again. He didn’t have a ballroom playlist, unfortunately. He bit his lip in thought, and then selected a song.

Marcel shuffled shyly towards Louis on the dancefloor. When the sound of music filled the studio, Marcel raised his eyebrows in surprise. Over the phone speaker, a voice began to sing.

_ I am unwritten, can’t read my mind, I’m undefined _

A smile bloomed across Marcel’s face. “Is that the song from that movie? The skating one?”

“ _ Ice Princess,  _ yeah.”

Marcel grinned.

“What? I have sisters. Now, are you ready?” Louis asked, rubbing his hands together excitedly.

Marcel sighed again. “I guess. But I’m warning you, I’m impossible to teach.”

Louis stepped closer to Marcel, smile softening. “Says who?”

“Everyone,” Marcel deadpanned.

Louis took Marcel’s hand and led him to the center of the dancefloor. “We’ll see. Now, basic steps. We’re in 4/4 time. 1, 2, 3, 4, and so on. I’m gonna lead first, just to show you. Then you can take over.”

Marcel suddenly looked nervous. “I…okay.”

Louis placed his hands on Marcel’s shoulders and gave them a squeeze. “Hey, you can do it. It’s just you and me.”

Marcel nodded, green eyes wide.

“Now we’re going to sway first. Put your weight on your right foot, then the left, then right, and so on. Okay?”

“Okay,” Marcel said, taking a deep breath.

“First lesson: posture,” Louis continued. “One hand on my shoulder, the other holds my other hand. Like so.”

Louis positioned Marcel correctly, clasping his bigger hand with his own smaller one. He tried to ignore the zing of sparks that erupted from the point of contact. “Good. Now, we sway. Start on your right foot.”

Marcel looked uncertainly down at his feet, then back at Louis’ face. “Okay.”

Louis mirrored Marcel’s steps, moving at his pace. “Good, good. See? Nice and slow. We’re just swaying along.”

Marcel smiled nervously. “Like this?”

Louis watched Marcel swaying in place. “Yes, you’ve got it. Now, you lead.”

Marcel’s eyes widened in alarm behind his black framed glasses. “Me?”

“You can do it, okay? We’re just going to switch our arms around.” Louis instructed Marcel patiently. “Good, place your hand at my waist. Yes.”

Marcel smiled timidly. “I’m doing it right?”

“Yep,” Louis smiled brightly. “Now, step a little closer. I won’t bite.”

Marcel blushed a bright pink, but wordlessly pulled Louis closer. His hand curled around Louis’ slim waist, and the pressure was just right—not too loose, and not too tight. The music continued to play as they swayed wordlessly for a few moments.

_ Release your inhibitions, feel the rain on your skin _

Louis’ curious blue eyes met Marcel’s green, and Louis forgot how to breathe for a moment. When he smiled, Marcel returned the gesture.

“You’re doing really well,” Louis said softly, so as not to break the spell of the quiet moment.

“You’re a good teacher,” Marcel said with a shy smile.

“Want to try a twirl?” Louis asked.

“Okay?” Marcel’s response came out as a question, and he blushed.

Louis guided Marcel through the motion. “So I’m going to spin, and you just hold my hand as I go around.”

Louis twirled slowly, then stepped back into Marcel’s arms.

Marcel’s smile was radiant. “Pas de deux,” he whispered.

Louis’ eyes widened excitedly. “Yes! You know ballet terminology?” he asked, clearly impressed.

Marcel smiled down at his feet. “No, just French.”

Louis’ jaw dropped. “You speak French?”

Marcel met Louis’ eyes again. “Oui.” His grin was contagious. Louis rolled his eyes, but smiled back. The song ended, and there was a moment of silence as the two swayed on the dancefloor. When the music changed, Marcel met Louis’ gaze with a surprised look.

First, a sultry piano rhythm played. The beat was decidedly more intimate than the previous song. And then a voice began to sing,

_ Havana...half of my heart is in Havana _

_ He took me back to East Atlanta... _

_ All of my heart is in Havana, there’s something ‘bout his manners _

_ Havana... _

Louis’ expression turned to mild panic.

“So…how do we dance to this one?” Marcel asked with a grin.

Louis recovered and laughed softly. “Like this.”

Louis pulled Marcel even closer, hands on his hips. He guided Marcel through a basic salsa step, mirroring his footwork.

“What if I step on your feet?” Marcel fretted.

Louis laughed lowly. “You break it, you buy it.”

Louis continued to guide Marcel’s movements, holding his narrow hips. He had danced with some of the most graceful people in the world, but there was something about dancing with Marcel that made Louis feel like he was dancing for the first time.

“It’s catchy,” Marcel said, breaking the silence.

Louis’ eyes snapped back up to meet Marcel’s. “Hmm?”

“The song. It’s catchy.”

“Well, it’s not exactly Debussy,” Louis quipped.

Marcel snorted a laugh. “Definitely not. But it’s cool. Now…what am I supposed to be doing with my hands?”

Louis’ smile widened. “Here,” he instructed, guiding Marcel’s arms to drape over Louis’ shoulders. “Casual, see?”

Marcel’s nervous smile bloomed into something breathtaking. “Casual. Ok.”

“You’re doing great Marcel,” Louis assured him. “Here, let’s try something. Do you trust me?”

Marcel’s green eyes were wide behind his thick glasses. “Y-yes? Yes.”

Louis nodded, then gingerly lifted one of Marcel’s hands from his shoulder and held it for a moment. “So I’m gonna twirl away, and then back, okay?”

“Okay,” Marcel said, visibly swallowing his nerves.

“I’m just gonna step out, like so,” Louis continued, turning to hold Marcel at arm’s length. “And then twirl back to you. Hold onto my hand.”

Louis felt Marcel’s grip tighten. Then he slowly turned inward until Marcel’s arm was wrapped around his shoulders. He looked up at Marcel’s face with a bright smile, finding him only inches away now. From here, Louis could see the curve of Marcel’s eyelashes. Dazzling.

In this position, Louis’ back was pressed to Marcel’s front. Marcel’s other hand gently curved around Louis’ waist, and Louis forgot to breathe. It was an innocent touch, just a soft pressure against his hip. And Louis had definitely danced more provocatively with much bolder people.

But it was Marcel. And Louis’ skin erupted in goosebumps at the sensation. God.

Louis suddenly felt shy as he blinked up at Marcel’s face. Marcel’s smile was soft, the private smile Louis had only glimpsed a few times. His bright eyes assessed Louis curiously. And not for the first time, with Marcel looking at him, Louis realized he was really being seen.

It was undeniably sexy.  _ Marcel _ was sexy. The realization hit Louis, and he knew he was blushing again.

“Okay?” Marcel murmured softly.

Louis could only nod wordlessly. He was prone to overthinking things, so after a moment’s hesitation, he slowly leaned up and brushed a kiss across Marcel’s jaw. Marcel’s eyes fluttered closed at the feeling, and when they opened, Louis saw an intensity he hadn’t seen before.

When Marcel slowly let go of the hand holding Louis’, he placed it right on Louis’ other hip. Then he carefully turned Louis’ body until they were standing face to face. Marcel pulled Louis a fraction closer, and Louis went easily. He was still mesmerized by Marcel’s eyes.

“Do it again,” Marcel said, smiling that private smile. “Please.”

Louis lost track of his surroundings. He wasn’t conscious of the music still playing, or the fact he was dressed in sweaty dance clothes while Marcel looked like a model. All he could do was step closer still and trace Marcel’s jaw with a slightly trembling hand. He scanned Marcel’s eyes for any sign of discomfort, and found none.

Louis had to balance on his tiptoes when he leaned closer to press his lips to Marcel’s, and the thought thrilled him. He was used to leading confidently, yet that smile on Marcel’s face—just for Louis to see—made his pulse flutter faster.

When their lips touched, Louis felt the familiar tingles all the way down to his feet. Marcel’s lips, bitten red from dancing nerves that night, were soft and so, so warm. It was a chaste kiss, over in just a moment, but it left Louis craving more. He felt Marcel’s smile against his lips before he saw it.

Louis pulled back just enough to gauge Marcel’s reaction, and found his usually composed face slightly flushed and smiling shyly. Louis was close enough to lean in for another kiss.

And then, for the first time in years, Louis wobbled on his toes. Just a tiny bit, barely perceptible, but there it was. Louis’ eyes widened as he stared into Marcel’s, unsure of what to do now.

“I can lean down, you know,” Marcel said quietly, smile fond and amused.

Louis blushed even more, if possible, and chuckled. “Didn’t see that coming.” He ducked his head in a moment of shyness.

Marcel simply lifted one hand to cup Louis’ chin, until he finally looked up. When their eyes met, Louis felt a jolt of electricity through his body. It stole his breath for a moment.

Marcel regarded him in silence, smile still fond.

“What?” Louis asked. It seemed his whole life hung on Marcel’s next words.

“Got something on your face,” he replied in a whisper. “Handsome. All over it.”

Louis smiled until his eyes crinkled a little. “Really.”

“Mhm. Here,” Marcel said, leaning closer to brush a kiss across Louis’ cheek. “And here,” Marcel added, dropping a tender kiss to Louis’ forehead. “And here,” Marcel concluded in a whisper, pressing his lips to Louis’. And Louis gladly surrendered control.

Marcel kissed him so tenderly, so slowly, that Louis felt his whole body melt into Marcel’s. His hands traced the warm skin of Marcel’s throat, down to his collarbones. In response, Marcel pressed his lips to Louis’ a little harder. Louis was dimly aware that his sweaty clothes were probably messing up Marcel’s nicer ones, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. He  _ wanted _ to get Marcel a little rumpled, wanted to run his fingers through Marcel’s hair until it was messy. He wanted to see careful Marcel lose control.

Louis pressed closer still, until his chest brushed Marcel’s, and traced the curve of Marcel’s bottom lip with his tongue. Marcel gasped, and Louis felt his pulse quicken under Louis’ fingers, still touching his throat. And Louis just. Didn’t have it in himself to tease. He wanted more, now. Louis kissed Marcel again, deeper, tracing the seam of Marcel’s lips until he parted them. Louis deepened the kiss further, until he could taste Marcel’s tongue.

Marcel moaned softly and cradled Louis’ face in gentle hands, pulling him even closer. The slick, deep slide of their kiss made Louis faintly dizzy, and he braced his hands on Marcel’s forearms for support. His calves were burning from standing on his toes for so long, but Louis didn’t care. He’d do this all night.

It seemed Louis wasn’t the only one faint for breath. Marcel pulled back just enough to separate his lips from Louis’ with a slick pop and take a ragged breath in. Louis took a deep breath as well, panting as his eyes slowly opened and met Marcel’s. Louis could spend the rest of his life staring into those green eyes.

Marcel took a slower, more measured breath in and lowered his face to rest his forehead against Louis’. The simple act left Louis feeling more cherished and cared for than ever before. Louis closed his eyes and reached for Marcel’s hands, tangling their fingers together. When he realized their bodies were swaying automatically to the next song, Louis smiled. From his old phone speaker, Louis now heard the distinct sound of Bruno Mars singing.

_ If you ever find yourself stuck in the middle of the sea _

_ I’ll sail the world to find you _

_ If you ever find yourself lost in the dark and you can’t see, _

_ I’ll be the light to guide you _

Marcel was the one to break the silence. “So, he said, raising his head to stare thoughtfully into Louis’ eyes. “Dancing is fun.”

Louis giggled a little, poking a finger into the dimple in Marcel’s cheek as he smiled. “ _ You  _ are fun.” Louis slowly lowered back down to his feet, his calves finally relaxed.

Marcel grinned at their height difference. “ _ We  _ are fun.”

“Well,” Louis said, mirroring Marcel’s expression. “You do keep me on my toes.”

Marcel cringed and squinted his eyes closed. “That was terrible.”

“Dance joke! C’mon, that was perfect,” Louis quipped. He jabbed a finger in Marcel’s side.

Marcel gasped and squirmed away from the tickle. “Perfectly cheesy, maybe.” He dodged another tickle attack from Louis’ fingers. Finally, he went on counter-attack. Marcel stepped closer and wrapped his long arms around Louis, trapping his tickling fingers between them.

“You’re a menace.”

Louis shrugged, burying his face in the front of Marcel’s shirt. “You like it,” he replied, and his voice was a little muffled. Marcel smelled amazing. Louis wanted to stay locked in his arms forever.

Marcel dropped a kiss to the top of Louis’ hair, still damp with sweat from Louis’ workout. “I do.”

Louis smiled against Marcel’s chest. “Thanks for dancing with me.”

“Anytime. Wow…can’t believe I said that.”

Louis pulled back and held Marcel at arm’s length. “Even the gala?”

“For you?” Marcel tilted his head, as if debating it. “Absolutely.”

*

Louis never particularly liked the Nutcracker ballet. Don’t get him wrong; when executed properly, it’s a great show, especially for families of all ages. It was one of the most accessible ballets for the general public to follow and appreciate. It was just…kind of cheesy.

Nevertheless, with the Nutcracker being the traditional season finale at the Royal Ballet Company, Louis dived into rehearsals with extra vigor. As principal, Louis was dancing the part of a nutcracker doll who wages war against the Mouse King, and is later transformed into a prince. A little cheesy, but Louis had some extra motivation to perform his best: this time, he knew someone special would be watching.

Marcel.

Louis was finally honest with himself and admitted that he was completely head over heels with Marcel. They had only known each other a short time, but Louis listened to his heart on this one. And his heart wanted Marcel.

During breaks in rehearsals, Louis texted Marcel about his day, and asked about Marcel’s. It was really just light banter, a welcome relief from the intensity of Louis’ days now, but it meant the world to him.

Olga returned to the studio as a welcome guest instructor to prepare the company for the Nutcracker performance, and she noticed the change in Louis the first day. While he still maintained a laser focus during class, pushing his body to its limits, Louis radiated a new level of confidence.

After class one day, Olga strolled over to Louis where he was packing up his belongings and dressing for the cold London day.

“Not staying late today, Louis?” she greeted with a smile.

Louis looked up and flashed Olga a grin. “Um…no. Actually, I’m not. Unless you think I should stay, in which case—“

“No, no,” Olga cut him off with a chuckle. “In fact, I’d say you’ve earned a night off. Your performance in class is better than ever, Louis, which is great in and of itself. But now you exude this…aura of confidence. It’s really special to watch. And inspiring for the rest of the company.”

Louis’ jaw dropped. “I…thank you. Wow.”

“No, thank you. I’d love to know, though, what’s changed. If you don’t mind me asking.”

Louis smiled down at his feet for a moment, choosing his words. When he met Olga’s eyes again, he felt more convicted than ever. “Actually, um, I’ve kind of met someone.”

Olga’s eyes sparkled with curiosity, and she nodded. “And this person…inspires you to be the best version of yourself,” she guessed with a smile.

“Yes, he does,” Louis replied softly. “And I’m so grateful to him for that.”

“I’m sure he’s lucky to have you, as well Louis. I’m so happy for you,” Olga mused.

“Thank you,” Louis replied, feeling energized by Olga’s words. “Any quotes for me today?”

Olga chuckled at the memory of their last conversation. So much had changed in such a short time.

“Just one.”

“Alright,” Louis said, preparing himself for her wise words.

“All you need is love,” Olga quoted with a misty smile.

Louis grinned. “The Beatles?”

“They were ahead of their time,” Olga winked, “just as you are.”

“You know, I couldn’t have made it this far without you,” Louis admitted, zipping up his coat.

Olga tilted her head in consideration. “The inspiration works both ways, Louis. Remember that. You can touch a lot of lives with your passion and determination.”

Louis nodded, taking in her words. “Thank you. I will.”

“Now,” Olga said, clearing her throat and wiping what looked suspiciously like a tear from her eye. “Get out there and woo your love. And know that I’m very, very proud.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m on my way.”

Olga bowed slightly in farewell, a content smile on her face. Louis nodded goodbye and walked out of the studio, with a new song in his head and one person on his mind.

*

_ Happy Feet: Dinner tonight? _

Marcel turned his bleary eyes away from his computer screen, which he had been staring at for hours, and read Louis’ text. Dinner sounded wonderful, in a word.

_ My place at 8 pm?  _ Marcel replied, holding his breath in anticipation.

Louis reply came moments later.

_ Happy Feet: Love to. I’ll bring the wine. _

Marcel smiled wearily in his office, early afternoon sun streaming in through the large window beside his desk. It had been a long day—long week, really—and it was only Tuesday. Yes, Marcel could definitely use a break. And any excuse to see Louis was worth it in his mind.

Marcel simply typed back a row of green and blue hearts in reply, then reluctantly turned back to the spreadsheet he was working on. The columns were starting to blur together for Marcel. Sighing, he scrolled through his music library and selected his Louis playlist. Bruno Mars began singing “Count on Me,” and Marcel smiled as he got back to work. Just a few more hours until he could see Louis. The time couldn’t pass quickly enough. 

*

Louis stopped on his way home from the studio to pick up some wine and a bouquet of flowers for Marcel. He didn’t know which kind of flowers were Marcel’s favorite, but Louis went with his instinct and selected an arrangement of pretty red flowers. At the checkout, the florist assessed his choice and nodded in approval.

“Amaryllis,” she said, wrapping a ribbon around the bouquet. “Means worth beyond beauty.”

Louis broke into a wide smile at that. “Sounds about right. Thank you!”

Louis exited the flower shop with a spring in his step. He walked back to his flat, greeting Liam and his girlfriend Maya, and went to shower. Louis took extra care dressing for his date with Marcel. He selected a soft blue button down and black skinny jeans with his nicest shoes. Louis smiled nervously into the mirror, giving himself a mental pep talk. There was really nothing to be nervous about; it was going to be a quiet dinner at Marcel’s, like last time.

But things had changed, Louis realized. They hadn’t just kissed that night in the dance studio. They had connected in a way that Louis had never felt with anyone else. And that was something.

Louis grabbed his coat, a bottle of Moscato he had found earlier at the shop, and the bouquet of flowers. He took a taxi this time, not wanting to be late for dinner. At Marcel’s building, Louis stopped and took a deep breath. He could do this, right?

A kindly-looking man with a nametag which read Robert opened the door for Louis with a polite smile. “Here to see Mr. Styles?” he asked.

Louis nodded, butterflies in his stomach at the mention of Marcel’s name.

“Very good, sir. He’s expecting you.”

Louis thanked the man, and then strode to the elevator. He took a few calming breaths as it ascended to Marcel’s level. Before he knew it, Louis was standing in front of Marcel’s door again. His hand trembled slightly as he rang the bell. 

Louis heard footsteps approaching the other side of the door, and took one final deep breath. Then the door swung open, and Louis promptly forgot how to breathe.

“Marcel,” Louis said reverently, taking him in with eager eyes. Marcel was dressed impeccably, as always, but tonight he looked radiant. He had chosen a black button up, sleeves cuffed neatly at the elbow, a black and silver tie, and tailored black slacks that showcased his long legs.

“Hi, Louis,” Marcel murmured with a soft smile. “Please come in.”

Louis stepped across the threshold, and then paused. “Um. These are for you,” he said, presenting the bouquet of flowers.

Marcel’s eyes widened in surprise, and his smile grew. “For me?” he asked, carefully accepting the flowers. “No one’s ever brought me flowers. Thank you, Lou,” Marcel said, finally tearing his eyes away from the pretty arrangement to stare at Louis.

“You’re welcome,” Louis nodded. “I’m told they mean worth beyond beauty, and I, um, thought that was fitting.”

Marcel blinked in surprise. “You…really?”

“Really,” Louis grinned. “Hope you like them.”

“Like them?” Marcel replied in disbelief. “I love them! Here, let’s put them in a vase.”

Louis followed Marcel into the kitchen, where something that smelled amazing was cooking. He watched with a fond smile as Marcel carefully retrieved a crystal vase from a high shelf and began arranging the flowers in it. The smile never left Marcel’s face as he worked.

“Thank you so much, Louis. This really made my day,” Marcel said over his shoulder.

“Long day then?” Louis asked curiously.

Marcel nodded, still engrossed in the flowers. “Yes. Very long. I don’t think I’ve ever looked at the clock so many times in one day.”

Louis chuckled softly. “In dance school, one instructor would make us do push ups if she caught us looking at the clock during rehearsal.”

Marcel finished arranging the flowers and turned to Louis with shock etched in his face. “Seriously?”

“Oh, yes. She was quite serious.”

“Wow,” Marcel said, shaking his head. “And I thought business school was hard.”

Louis shrugged and smiled. “School is school, I guess. Wherever you go, at some point you end up in trouble.”

Marcel bit back a grin. “Speak for yourself.”

“What, you never got in trouble?” Louis asked incredulously. “Not ever?”

Marcel laughed. “Nope. I actually still keep in contact with some of them.”

“Oh god. You actually are kind of a nerd,” Louis replied with a sly smile.

“Kind of?” Marcel exclaimed. “Look up ‘nerd’ in the dictionary, and you’ll see my picture.”

Louis rolled his eyes. “Nah,” he said, stepping closer towards Marcel. “You know where you are in the dictionary, actually?” Louis was now face to face with Marcel.

“Where?” Marcel asked with a curious smile.

Louis leaned closer, until his lips brushed the side of Marcel’s face. “Dazzling.” Louis pressed a soft kiss to Marcel’s cheek, then leaned back.

Marcel blinked once, twice, before he regained use of his mouth. “D-Dazzling? Me?”

“Yes, you,” Louis said fondly. “Now, what amazing meal have you been working on tonight?”

Marcel nodded towards the oven. “Um, vegetable lasagna from scratch, fresh salad, and chocolate pie for dessert.”

Louis’ jaw dropped. “Marcel, you didn’t have to do all this. I would’ve been impressed with super noodles and a packet of Walkers crisps.”

Marcel rolled his eyes. “We’re broadening our horizons here, Lou. Go with it.”

“Fine,” Louis relented. “But I’m helping with the dishes.”

“We’ll see,” Marcel smiled enigmatically. “Now. Dinner?”

*

Spending time with Marcel, Louis was realizing over dinner, was special.  _ Marcel _ was special. Everything he said left Louis craving more. He might always be a little shy, but once he opened up, Marcel was a great conversationalist. Louis loved to glimpse what was going on in Marcel’s mind.

And when he smiled, god. When Louis made Marcel smile, especially, it was more than just a smile. When Marcel smiled, it was an event. First, his perfect nose wrinkled just a fraction in amusement. Then, his mouth spread into a wide smile. His green eyes sparkled behind his thick glasses. And a dimple appeared in his cheek. It was a lot for Louis to take in.

“What?” Marcel asked at one point, when they had been laughing about something Niall had said recently. Louis didn’t realize he was openly staring at Marcel. “What is it?”

“Um, nothing,” Louis replied, blushing under Marcel’s gaze. “Was just thinking.”

“Thinking what?” Marcel asked curiously.

Louis took a deep breath, and swallowed his nerves. “You’re really lovely, Marcel. You know? What if I had never met you?”

Marcel seemed stunned by the compliment. He considered his reply, and finally spoke. “We would have met eventually. Somewhere. Maybe next week, maybe ten years from now, but we would have met. Zayn has this theory,” Marcel said thoughtfully. “He says that sometimes, the universe gets things right. And I think us meeting was right. You know?”

Louis felt goosebumps on his skin at Marcel’s words. “You think so?”

“I mean,” Marcel said, “I know so.”

Louis took in Marcel’s expression: his slightly pink cheeks from confessing his feelings, nervous smile, intense green eyes. His appearance was perfect to Louis, as always, but there was more to Marcel than just that.

“Worth beyond beauty,” Louis murmured, unaware he had spoken aloud.

“Hmm?” Marcel asked.

Louis blushed at the realization that he had voiced that thought. “Like the flowers, you know? You’re beautiful, but not just your looks. You’re a really special person, Marcel.”

Marcel shook his head slowly in disbelief. “I don’t…no one’s ever said that about me,” he confessed. “You maybe, I can see it. You’re breathtaking. But me…I don’t know.”

Louis realized Marcel wasn’t fishing for compliments; he genuinely didn’t know the effect he had on Louis. So Louis made it his mission then and there to show him, even if it took all night.

“Hey, none of that,” Louis reprimanded gently. “Don’t doubt yourself. Don’t you know? Surely you must know…” he trailed off, watching Marcel’s perplexed expression.

“Know what?” Marcel whispered.

Louis’ smile softened. “How much you mean to me.”

Marcel’s jaw dropped. “Louis,” he breathed in protest. “But…”

“No buts,” Louis said, tentatively reaching for Marcel’s hand. “I just…really like you.”

Marcel slowly tangled his fingers with Louis’, smiling that private smile only Louis got to see. “I really like you, too.”

Louis smiled, feeling a weight lifted off his shoulders.

“You don’t…you’re not worried about what people will say?” Marcel asked curiously.

“What do you mean, love?”

“Just. You’re so amazing and talented. You could have anyone you wanted, you know? Like…look at you,” Marcel said, gesturing between them dejectedly. “And then look at me.”

“I am looking at you. I’m always looking at you,” Louis replied with a quiet smile.

Marcel looked up timidly. “You are?”

“Yes. I meant what I said; you really are dazzling to me.”

“Louis—“

“Hey, listen, okay? I mean it. You make me all…melt-y,” Louis confessed, squeezing Marcel’s hand.

“Melt-y?” Marcel asked with a grin. “Really?”

“Really. Do you believe me?”

“I…I do. Yes.”

“Then what are we doing still sitting here?” Louis quipped, rising from the table.

“Where are you going?” Marcel asked, wide-eyed.

“Well,” Louis replied patiently, “first I’m coming over here to do this.” Louis walked around the table, leaning down to Marcel’s level. He placed a soft kiss to Marcel’s lips, lingering for a moment. “And then, I’m going to sit in the lounge and kiss you again. You coming?”

“Right behind you,” Marcel breathed, standing up with a start. “Yes.”

Louis smiled as he turned to walk to the large cream couch in the lounge. He could hear Marcel tripping along behind him, once snagging his shoe on the rug. But when Louis sank down on the luxurious couch, Marcel was right beside him.

Marcel bit his lip in anticipation and shyly edged closer to Louis. Louis couldn’t help but smile as he scooted closer to Marcel and claimed his lips in a searing kiss. And yeah, Louis thought as he tasted Marcel’s soft, warm mouth, maybe the universe did get it right sometimes.

*

Louis had never appreciated kissing in and of itself; not as a means to an end, but just something to do to show someone they’re loved. And then he met Marcel.

Marcel never hurried; he devoted his time kissing Louis completely to that moment. And Louis suspected he wasn’t trying to tease; yet his hands on Louis’ back and waist were both comforting and maddening at the same time. It always left Louis wanting more.

Louis had lost track of how long they had been tangled together on the couch like this. He had ended up in Marcel’s lap, straddling his thighs for better access to his mouth. And Louis just suddenly…wanted.

He wanted to run his hands through Marcel’s carefully styled hair until it was disheveled. He wanted to rumple his neatly-ironed clothes. He wanted to mark up Marcel’s soft, pale skin with his teeth. No one had ever had this effect on Louis before, and he was going crazy.

Louis pulled back from Marcel’s lips with a gasp, eyes fluttering open. His skin felt on fire, and he was panting for breath. Marcel blinked slowly up at Louis, lips slick and red from kissing, and suddenly Louis remembered Marcel’s awkward confession about having no gag reflex. He sighed in frustration and pressed his forehead to Marcel’s, bringing his hands up to cradle Marcel’s face.

“I don’t want you to take this wrong, sweetheart,” Louis rasped, “but you’re driving me insane.”

Marcel stared wide eyed for a moment, unsure of what to say. “What,” he began, nervously licking his lips and causing Louis to groan involuntarily, “what do you want to do?”

Louis’ heartbeat mercifully slowed down a fraction, allowing him to think. “What do  _ you _ want, love?” he asked.

Marcel stared thoughtfully at Louis, green eyes intense behind his trademark frames. “You,” he whispered. “I want you. Just you.”

Louis smiled and pressed a tender kiss to Marcel’s lips. “Okay. You’ve got me.”

“Do you…would you prefer these off?” Marcel asked, touching the frame of his glasses.

“No, love,” Louis said, carefully straightening the glasses on Marcel’s face. “I want you to see.”

Marcel flushed a pretty pink and nodded reverently. “Okay.”

“However,” Louis said with a sly smile, fingers tracing Marcel’s tie, “this has got to go. May I?”

Marcel looked down at his tie, then nodded. “Yes. Please.”

Louis slowly loosened Marcel’s tie with nimble fingers, then unraveled the knot. “You always look so nice, Marcel,” Louis murmured. “It makes me…I can’t. You’re so,” he said, growing frustrated in more ways than one.

“So what?” Marcel whispered, watching Louis slide off his tie.

“So sexy,” Louis breathed, dropping a kiss to Marcel’s throat.

“Louis—“ Marcel began to protest, but Louis silenced him with a kiss.

“You have no idea,” Louis mumbled against Marcel’s lips, “what it does to me.”

Louis traced the top buttons of Marcel’s black shirt impatiently.

“I just,” Louis breathed, squirming in Marcel’s lap a bit, “I…” Louis curled his fingers around the top of Marcel’s shirt, stretching it open to reveal a new patch of smooth skin. “Just…” Louis shifted just right, getting some friction on his hardening cock, and he gasped. “Can’t…” Louis struggled to form a coherent sentence. Under his fingers, the fabric of Marcel’s shirt strained against the buttons. “…can’t  _ take it _ ,” Louis said, putting a little more pressure on Marcel’s shirt, until suddenly the buttons popped free of the fabric.

Marcel gasped, and then unexpectedly groaned and pressed his head back against the couch. Louis listened as the buttons bounced on the hardwood floor and then rolled out of sight. He stared at the open expanse of Marcel’s chest now, and couldn’t wait any longer.

Louis leaned down and sucked a hard kiss right on the middle of Marcel’s chest. Marcel moaned softly, and his hands came around Louis to pull him closer. Louis only pulled back when he was confident he’d left a mark.

“Louis,” Marcel gasped, hands running all over Louis—his hair, his shoulders, the curve of his spine.

Louis couldn’t stop. He pulled the broken front of Marcel’s shirt further open, exposing his whole chest. Then he traced the shape of Marcel’s nipple with his tongue. Marcel sucked in a breath of surprise and arched his hips up, looking for friction. Louis licked over his hardening nipple, tugging gently with his teeth until Marcel whined. 

“I can come like this,” Marcel gasped as Louis lathed over his other nipple.

“Fuck,” Louis murmured in response, biting down a little harder. “Do you want to?”

“N-No,” Marcel stammered, shaking his head. “Bed. Please.”

Louis nodded, satisfied with the fresh marks around Marcel’s collarbones and nipples. “Okay.”

Louis stood, offering a hand for Marcel. Marcel grasped his hand and led Louis to his bedroom.

Another time, Louis would take in his surroundings and notice the beautiful artwork on the walls, the vast collection of books, and the huge walk-in closet. For now, though, he was mainly appreciative of the large, four-poster bed. Louis turned back to face Marcel, taking in his flushed, disheveled appearance. To his dismay, Marcel’s belt and black slacks were still neatly in place.

Wordlessly, Louis pressed Marcel’s back to the bedroom door and sank to his knees, pleased at Marcel’s subdued moan. He made quick work of the belt, sliding it out of Marcel’s belt loops and considering it for a moment. “Could tie you up with this sometime,” Louis said offhandedly. Then he unbuttoned Marcel’s trousers. He pulled them down to reveal simple black boxer briefs, and leaned closer to lick a stripe of skin above Marcel’s waistband. The front of Marcel’s slacks were tented from his growing erection, and it made Louis squirm a little.

“Oh god,” Marcel gasped, unable to tear his eyes away from Louis.

Louis looked up through his lashes and smiled slyly. “Breathe, love.”

Louis went back to Marcel’s boxer briefs, slowly sliding them down his narrow hips. When Marcel’s cock sprung free, Louis moaned at the sight. Louis slid his slacks and briefs down to Marcel’s ankles, slowly tracing the shape of his legs with gentle hands.

“So lovely,” Louis sighed, hands skimming the soft skin of Marcel’s thighs. His lips followed his hands, exploring the warm skin he found. Louis sucked a hard kiss into Marcel’s inner thigh, completely bypassing his cock, and Marcel’s whole body jolted.

“Lou…”

Louis looked up to meet Marcel’s dazed eyes. “Are you watching, love?” he asked, hands traveling up Marcel’s thighs to spread out across his flat stomach and slight love handles.

Marcel blinked down at Louis, nodding, and Louis smiled. He rewarded Marcel with a firm hand around the base of his cock.

“Watch,” Louis ordered softly, eyes never leaving Marcel’s as he slowly stroked upwards. Marcel gasped again, but didn’t look away. He watched, spellbound, as Louis traced the sensitive head of his cock with his fingertips. And then his tongue.

Marcel’s eyelashes fluttered, but he resolutely kept his eyes open, breathing hard. 

“Can you get on the bed for me, sweetheart?” Louis asked.

Marcel nodded quickly, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Y-Yeah.”

Louis helped Marcel step out of the slacks pooling around his ankles, then rose and led Marcel to the bed. He pressed a soft kiss to Marcel’s lips, then eased him backwards onto the fluffy duvet. When Marcel was comfortable, he stretched out his hands for Louis to join him.

Louis grinned and held up a finger in pause. Then without ceremony, he stripped off his button up and jeans, and finally his boxer briefs.

“Lou,” Marcel said in awe, taking in the expanse of Louis’ body.

Louis guessed his long hours in the dance studio had paid off, judging by the way Marcel was staring. He blushed a little under Marcel’s gaze. Louis curled gentle hands around Marcel’s slender ankles at the end of the bed.

“Okay?” Louis asked.

Marcel smiled and nodded.

Louis took in the full effect of Marcel’s tall, slim body spread out on the bed. His pale, smooth chest was dotted with bite marks. His cock, still hard from Louis’ teasing, lay full against his thigh. But his face—that’s what really did Louis in. Marcel’s usually composed expression looked a little wild now; his calm green eyes sparkled feverishly in the soft lamplight. Sweat darkened his hairline, and his usually tidy hair had loosened and started to curl. His lips, bitten red from kissing, curved up into the private smile meant only for Louis.

The restless, hot feeling that left Louis literally ripping Marcel’s clothes off returned, and Louis wasted no time crawling onto the bed. His eyes never left Marcel’s as he settled on his hands and knees above Marcel’s body, caging him in. Then Louis smiled.

“You’re perfect, you know that, love?” he rasped.

Marcel’s smile softened, and his hands came up to cradle Louis’ face. “If I’m perfect,” he replied, “then you’re ethereal.”

Louis smiled until the corners of his eyes crinkled. He shook his head fondly and turned his head to kiss the palm of Marcel’s hand in reply. Wordlessly, he dipped his head to leave a trail of kisses down Marcel’s chest. His lips traced Marcel’s collarbones, and he licked over the marks he had made before. They skimmed over Marcel’s flat stomach, feeling the muscles contract under his mouth. When he reached the dark trail of hair leading down to Marcel’s thick cock, he looked up with a fond smile.

“Ethereal,” he repeated, and licked right down the trail.

Marcel sucked in a surprised breath and tried to let it out slowly. His stomach jumped under Louis’ tongue in anticipation.

Louis wrapped a hand firmly around Marcel’s cock, giving it a few slow strokes. Marcel murmured his name, and Louis wasted no time wrapping his lips around the head of Marcel’s cock. He swirled his tongue around it, tasting the pre-come at the tip and moaning appreciatively.

Marcel fought to keep his eyes on Louis, instinctively wanting to squeeze them shut. But his awed eyes never left Louis’ face as Louis sucked and licked him closer to orgasm.

“Lou, I’m not gonna last…I’m gonna…” Marcel confessed.

Louis pulled off the wet head of Marcel’s cock and met his eyes. “Gonna come, love?”

“Y-Yeah. You’re just so…I can’t…”

“Shh,” Louis soothed, stroking Marcel’s hard cock, spreading the wetness around. “You can come, sweetheart. I want to taste you.”

Marcel groaned, and his cock twitched in Louis’ hands at his words. “I…”

Louis took Marcel deeper into his mouth, relaxing his jaw as he went. He didn’t stop until he felt the tip of Marcel’s cock brush the back of his throat. Louis slowly pulled off, sucking hard, feeling Marcel’s thighs tense under his hands. Louis sucked hard on Marcel’s tip, tasting more pre-come.

A glance up found Marcel coming unraveled. His chest was heaving, and his face was flushed. His glasses had gone askew. Marcel’s hands clutched the duvet, and his thighs trembled under Louis’ hands in an effort to stay still.

Louis rewarded him by sinking back down on Marcel’s cock, sucking and licking relentlessly. His jaw was beginning to ache, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. He pulled back, sucking and feeling Marcel’s cock throb in his mouth. Close.

Louis wrapped a hand around the base of Marcel’s cock and began stroking while he sucked hard on the head. He swirled his tongue around the tip again and again, and Marcel’s hips finally jerked upwards. Louis hummed in encouragement, never stopping his movements, and Marcel let out a steady stream of moans and whimpers.

And then he was coming, his cock throbbing harder as Louis eagerly swallowed down his come. Louis kept stroking him through it, relishing the way Marcel’s hips bucked just enough to push his cock further into Louis’ mouth.

“Louis,” Marcel moaned brokenly, gasping for breath. “Oh god.”

Louis’ hand slowed on Marcel’s cock, and he gently slid his mouth off the tip. “Okay?” he asked.

“O-Okay? Louis, I…come here,” he panted, reaching out eager hands.

Louis smiled and crawled back up Marcel’s body, now coated in a sheen of sweat. He paused above Marcel’s face, admiring how wrecked he looked in the lamplight. Marcel struggled to catch his breath, skimming his hands over Louis’ shoulders and down his back. His big, gentle hands curved around Louis’ ass and squeezed once, and Louis moaned in surprise. He spared a thought for his own neglected cock, which felt harder than ever now.

As if reading his mind, Marcel trailed a hand around Louis side and down to his cock.

“Okay?” he asked, looking Louis in the eye.

“Yeah,” Louis breathed, body trembling a little.

Marcel wrapped his hand around Louis cock and stroked experimentally. Louis dropped his head and whimpered.

“Not…gonna…last long,” he managed to say as Marcel began stroking in earnest now. “You. You look so good, I just…” Louis trailed off.

“Yeah?” Marcel asked in a low voice. “You like the way I look? Like messing me up a bit?”

“Y-Yes,” Louis gasped as Marcel teased the head of his cock.

“Like tearing up my nice clothes? Making me fall apart?”

“Marcel,” Louis whined, bucking his hips, chasing his release.

“Next time, I’m gonna fuck you with my work clothes on,” Marcel said, squeezing Louis’ cock harder with each stroke. “Would you like that?”

“M-Marcel,” Louis gasped, close to coming. “Please.”

“Come, Louis. I want it on my skin.”

Louis squeezed his eyes shut and came with a shout, his cock shooting out ropes of come onto Marcel’s chest and neck. The feeling sent shock waves through Louis’ body, and he trembled as Marcel stroked him through it.

When Louis finally opened his eyes, and Marcel stilled his hand on his cock, Louis stared in awe. Marcel’s glasses, previously askew on his handsome face, had spots of Louis’ come on the lenses and frames. Louis’ cock dribbled a little more come onto Marcel’s hand in response.

“Oh god,” Louis said shakily. “Marcel.”

Marcel slid his hand off Louis’ cock, reaching for a box of tissues on the nightstand. His other hand stroked soothingly up and down Louis’ shaking back. Louis eased down beside Marcel, trying to catch his breath. Marcel neatly cleaned them up, then tossed the tissue over the side of the bed. He slid off his glasses and placed them on the night stand.

“You,” Louis said, struggling to form words. “I can’t believe. The way you  _ talk _ , oh god.”

Marcel chuckled beside him, linking his fingers through Louis’. “Oops.”

“Wow,” was all Louis could say, turning to bury his face in Marcel’s chest.

“Yeah,” Marcel said, curling his arm around Louis’ smaller frame.

There was companionable silence for a moment as they caught their breath. Louis finally broke the silence.

“So…fucking me in your nice clothes, huh?”

Marcel snickered and pulled Louis closer. “If you want.”

“I want,” Louis fired back, pressing a kiss to Marcel’s chest.

“Here,” Marcel said, when Louis shivered a little. “Get under the covers.”

Together, they pulled back the duvet and crawled underneath. When Marcel pulled the soft duvet over them, Louis sighed in contentment and curled up around Marcel.

“Hey, Lou?” Marcel asked a little timidly.

“Hmm?” Louis asked, blinking sleepily.

“Do you want…are we, um, dating?”

Louis opened his eyes and stared fondly at Marcel’s face. “Yeah, love. If you’d like to be.”

“I would,” Marcel said, shyly meeting Louis’ eyes. “Very much.”

Louis pressed a kiss to Marcel’s cheek and cuddled in closer. “So would I.”

Louis had almost drifted off to sleep when Marcel chuckled beside him.

“What?” Louis mumbled sleepily.

“You came on my glasses,” Marcel whispered.

Louis snickered. “Sorry, not sorry.”

“You really are a menace.”

“You like it,” Louis yawned.

There was silence for a moment, and Louis distinctly heard before he drifted off to sleep, Marcel whispering as he relaxed into Louis’ arms.

“Yeah, I do.”

*

Marcel didn’t wake to an alarm the next morning as usual. Instead, he gradually woke to the feeling of fingers carding through his hair and the sound of soft humming. Marcel cracked one eye open, hoping against hope that last night hadn’t been some elaborate dream.

And there was Louis.

Real Louis, in the flesh, curled up in Marcel’s bed with a fond smile on his face. His soft hair was sticking up at odd angles, and stubble lined his handsome jaw, but there he was. Marcel smiled sleepily, nudging his head closer to Louis’ touch.

Louis’ eyes snapped down to Marcel’s at the movement, midnight blue in the early morning light. His smile grew as he took in Marcel’s expression of wonder, and he scratched Marcel’s scalp affectionately.

“Morning,” Louis rasped at the same time Marcel whispered, “Are you real?”

Louis raised his eyebrows, then grinned. “Are  _ you _ real?”

Marcel blinked, eyes trying to focus without his glasses. “Me?”

“Yes you,” Louis said, trailing his hand down to touch the contours of Marcel’s face. “With your lovely green eyes and your smile and these curls, god. Who knew? They’re gorgeous, Marcel. Really.”

Marcel smiled, leaning into the gentle touch. “You’re gorgeous. And good morning. What time is it?”

Louis squinted at the clock on the night stand. “Hmm…7:00.”

Marcel groaned. “I need a holiday. I’m calling in sick.”

Louis grinned. “Really? Well, you’re the boss, right?”

“Co-boss,” Marcel corrected with a yawn. “I’ll just text Zayn.”

Marcel reached over to the night stand for his glasses, and Louis stopped him.

“Those aren’t going to do you much good,” Louis admitted sheepishly. “Where’s your spare?”

“Um,” Marcel mused, “inside the closet, on the left. There’s a table.”

Louis rumpled Marcel’s hair once more, and then slid out of the bed. He padded over to the closet, then located Marcel’s other glasses. “Brown ok?”

“Sure,” Marcel replied, taking a moment to stretch.

Louis returned gingerly carrying the glasses, and Marcel slid them on. He reached for his phone and typed out a text to Zayn. Then he set the phone down and turned back to face Louis.

“Um, sorry if this is being forward, but would you like to have breakfast? And maybe a shower?” Marcel asked politely.

Louis rolled his eyes but nodded. “I’d love to. And I think we threw ‘forward’ out the window when I came on your glasses.”

“They’re Gucci,” Marcel grinned back at Louis. “My favorite. You must be pretty special.”

Louis chuckled. “Good thing we’re dating, then.”

Marcel’s smile softened. “Very good thing. So…shower first?”

Louis nodded in the affirmative. “Mind if I borrow something to wear?”

Marcel nodded back, and got out of the bed. He rummaged around in a drawer for som e pants,  and then grabbed a soft sweater from the closet. He turned around to find Louis staring appreciatively at his naked body.

“You’re um, staring,” Marcel said, stating the obvious.

Louis shrugged unrepentantly and stood to meet Marcel. “Can you blame me? I meant what I said—you really are dazzling. In clothes and out of them.”

Marcel blushed, shaking his head. “What is it with you and my clothes?”

This time, it was Louis’ turn to blush. “I just…I really like you in them.”

Marcel nodded. “I mean…I like you in tights, so I guess we’re even.”

Louis grinned. “Tights, huh? Were you checking me out all those times?”

“I, um…I…yeah,” Marcel admitted finally. “Googled you one day and Zayn thought I was looking at porn, I was so flustered.”

Louis laughed. “Oh, love. Only you.”

Marcel shrugged, smiling shyly. “So, shower? If you want?”

“I want,” Louis said, accepting the clean clothes from Marcel.

Marcel’s phone buzzed a new notification, and he shuffled over to the nightstand to read it. “Zayn,” he announced. “Let’s see.”

_ Finally! Take the day, okay? And tell Louis hi for me. _

Marcel looked up at Louis with wide eyes. “How did he know?”

Louis shrugged, a playful smile on his lips. “Maybe he’s in tune with the universe after all.”

*


	4. Chapter 4

IV.

“Work like you don’t need the money. Dance like no one is watching. And love like you’ve never been hurt.”

\--Anonymous

 

Nothing could have deflated Marcel’s good mood after spending the morning with Louis. He had cooked them a full English breakfast—to Louis’ raving—and then they just hung out in the lounge. Marcel attempted to teach Louis his cherished “Heart and Soul” piano duet, and it was a work in progress. Louis had a rehearsal for the Nutcracker show that afternoon, so they parted in time for Louis to go get his dance bag.

Marcel had walked Louis to the door, feeling wistful about saying goodbye. Louis lingered a moment as well, fidgeting with his keys and phone until he was going to be late. Finally, Louis looked up at Marcel with a soft smile.

“I had a really great time with you, Marcel,” he said, blue eyes sparkling in the late morning light. “I, um, would love to see you again soon.”

Marcel’s heart soared at Louis’ words, hoping against hope that Louis felt the same way he did.

“I’d like that too, Lou. Text me later?” Marcel asked with a smile. “I’ve got you saved in my new phone, so I won’t have to barge into your studio again.”

Louis laughed. “Hey, barge in anytime. I’d love to see you.”

“You’re gonna be late,” Marcel sighed, checking the time. “I’ll talk to you later?”

“Definitely,” Louis nodded, leaning up to press a gentle kiss to Marcel’s lips.

When he pulled back just a fraction, Marcel murmured, “Go, before I kidnap you for the rest of the day.”

Louis pecked one more kiss onto Marcel’s lips. “Going. Gone. I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”

“Okay,” Marcel replied. He watched from the doorway as Louis walked away to the elevator.

“I see you checking me out,” Louis called over his shoulder.

Marcel chuckled and shrugged. “Can you blame me?”

“Play your cards right, and the next time you see me, I’ll be in tights,” Louis teased.

“I wouldn’t miss it. Bye, Louis.”

“Bye, love,” Louis said as the elevator doors slid open. He waved once, and then he was gone.

Marcel stood there a moment longer, imagining Louis going through the rest of his day. Suddenly, he wasn’t excited to go back into his now-empty flat. Marcel sighed quietly, then shuffled back inside. He pulled out his phone and scrolled through his music collection until he landed on his Louis playlist. Marcel selected “Unwritten” and began singing as he went about cleaning his kitchen. And if he put the song on repeat, just to remember the feeling of being in Louis’ arms for the first time, no one else needed to know.

*

When Marcel’s phone signaled a new text later that afternoon, he rushed to answer it. Maybe Louis was checking in to say hi. So Marcel was surprised to find it was Zayn instead. Marcel read, then reread the message with wide eyes, growing distressed.

_ We need to talk. Are you home? _

What could possibly have Zayn ready to run over to Marcel’s to talk on a Wednesday night? Marcel frowned as he replied.

_ Of course. Come on over. _

Zayn didn’t immediately reply, so Marcel warily set his phone down and went to make dinner, just in case Zayn hadn’t eaten. Marcel thought back to the last time Zayn had wanted to talk, and smiled. It had been only good things, about Louis especially. Maybe Marcel was getting worked up for nothing.

Marcel’s doorbell rang ten minutes later, and Marcel paused his work chopping vegetables for a fresh salad. He opened the door only to find Zayn, hair slightly disheveled and a worried look on his face.

“Zayn? What’s wrong?” Marcel asked, his curiosity turning to dread. “Come in?”

“Thanks,” Zayn murmured. He walked past Marcel without making eye contact and went to sit in the kitchen.

No sooner had he sat down, but Zayn sprung up from his seat. He began pacing. Marcel stood in the doorway, watching his best friend slowly unravel, and had no clue how to help.

“Zayn? Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong,” Marcel settled on saying, since “sit down” probably wouldn’t be appreciated.

Zayn paused his pacing, his back to Marcel, and hung his head. He took a slow breath and let it out. Then he turned to face Marcel.

“It’s Louis,” Zayn said simply, finally meeting Zayn’s eyes with an anguished expression.

“L-Louis?” Marcel stammered, heart dropping to his stomach. “What happened? Is he okay?”

Zayn sighed and ran a hand through his hair, and Marcel realized he must have been doing it for a while to make his hair so messy.

“He’s okay, Marcel. Nothing like that, okay?”

Marcel slowly sat down at the kitchen table. “Then…what’s wrong?”

Zayn shook his head, as if disbelieving his own words. “Marce,” he finally sighed. “I want to be wrong, here, okay? For the record. So when you get mad at me, just know, I don’t want it to be true.”

“Okay?” Marcel replied, feeling more lost than ever.

“Okay. So listen. Has Louis ever talked to you about…money?”

Marcel frowned, taken off guard. “Money?” he asked, raising his brows in surprise. “No, why?”

Zayn sighed, looking a little relieved. He walked over to the table and sat down across from Marcel.

“It may be nothing, okay? But a guy I know—that I’ve known for a while, who also attends the ballet—heard that Louis has been searching for funds. Like, significant funds. He’s got some kind of…project, and he needs donors,” Zayn said haltingly. He looked up to meet Marcel’s eyes, and his brown eyes were full of regret.

“I…don’t follow, I’m sorry,” Marcel confessed.

“Marce, this guy saw you and Louis together. And he asked me why a dancer who’s strapped for cash is cozying up to the richest patron at the ballet.”

Zayn averted his eyes from Marcel’s to add in a whisper, “I’m sorry, Marcel.”

Marcel felt panic rise in his throat. His face drained of all color, and he felt a little dizzy. Unbidden, tears pricked his eyes. “Zayn, are you saying…” Marcel said faintly, unable to complete his sentence.

Zayn bit his lip and nodded. “…that Louis is using you for money.”

“But—but he’s never asked me for a penny!” Marcel protested, finding his voice.

“Think, Marcel,” Zayn urged. “Has he ever talked about big purchases or projects he wants to do, but hasn’t been able to yet?”

Marcel’s jaw dropped. “The ballet studio,” he whispered, feeling sick.

“I told you, Marcel. I didn’t want to believe it. Louis is a great guy. But,” he said, taking a deep breath, “you’re my best friend. And that takes priority.”

Marcel opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. The words  _ Louis _ and  _ money _ were running through his mind on a loop now. Zayn’s words echoed through Marcel’s head. Surely it wasn’t true. Surely Louis wouldn’t stay the night with him, and say all the things he said, if he didn’t mean them.

“You mean…he doesn’t mean it?” Marcel finally asked. “He doesn’t want me?”

“Babe,” Zayn rushed to say. “No, I’m not saying that. I’m sure he does want you. He just…also wants this project really bad, and he’s willing to…do anything for it.”

Marcel looked up at Zayn at those words, jaw hanging open and tears blurring his eyes. “He told me…he said,” Marcel said, and then choked on his tears. He couldn’t finish his sentence.

“Hey, hey,” Zayn murmured, cautiously coming around the table to kneel in front of Marcel. “I’m sorry babe. I didn’t want to say it. But if it’s true…”

Marcel’s voice was thick with tears as he gasped out, “You mean if he lied to me. Has  _ always _ lied to me.”

Zayn hesitated, then nodded. “Yes.”

Marcel slowly slid off his glasses as tears ran down his face. “Why? Why, Zayn?”

“I’m so sorry, Marcel. I don’t…I wish I could make it better.”

“Why would he go to all the trouble to get to know me, to make me…love him, if he didn’t mean it?”

“You love him?” Zayn breathed, eyes wide.

“Not that it matters now,” Marcel said under his breath. “But never again.”

Zayn opened his mouth to protest, but Marcel continued, “It’s my own fault. I should’ve known…why would someone like him want me, if not for…for money.”

“Marcel,” Zayn said, bracing one hand on Marcel’s knee, “none of this is your fault.”

“I even  _ asked _ him, Zayn—I asked him, because I couldn’t believe it myself. Why he would want me, when he could have anyone.”

“Hey, don’t put yourself down like that, Marcel. You’re really special, okay?”

“Not to Louis,” Marcel whispered, hanging his head.

“Hey, listen. We’re forgetting one thing,” Zayn replied.

“What?” Marcel sniffled.

“You haven’t talked to Louis,” Zayn explained. “This could all be just a big misunderstanding. You just need to talk to him to find out.”

“Talk to him? About money? About all of this?” Marcel asked incredulously. “I can’t even think about it without crying.”

“That’s okay. I think you’ve earned a good cry. But listen—the sooner you talk to him, the better. Imagine spending the rest of your life wondering because you never asked him.”

“He’s gonna hate me,” Marcel replied faintly. “How can I say that to him?”

Zayn pondered his response for a moment. “Look at it this way: how can you not?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well…you really care about him, right? So if you talk to him, and it’s true, it’s about the money, then you end it. Send him on his way to someone else who’ll fund his big dream. Let him have a chance to succeed with someone else. But you can’t just…not know this, once you know. You’ll always have it in the back of your mind if you don’t ask.”

“So,” Marcel said, taking a shaky breath, “he doesn’t…will never love me.”

Zayn shrugged. “You can really love someone, and still take advantage of them.”

Marcel buried his face in his hands. “I can’t do it right now. I need time to think.”

“Take your time,” Zayn soothed, squeezing Marcel’s shoulder. “Maybe sleep on it?”

“I’ll try,” Marcel replied. “I think…is it okay if I go lie down for a while?”

Zayn slowly stood. “Yeah, babe. Go ahead.”

“Will you stay?”

“Always,” Zayn vowed with a grim smile. “No matter what.”

*

Marcel spent a sleepless night tossing and turning…and crying. At first, he muffled the sounds in a pillow, feeling crushed as a never-ending stream of tears ran down his face. Marcel had lost track of what time it was when he heard a knock at his door frame.

“Marcel?” Zayn asked warily. “You asleep?”

“No,” Marcel admitted, voice gravelly from crying. “Can’t.”

“Tell me what I can do,” Zayn urged, leaning against the doorframe. “Anything.”

“I could, um. Use a hug?” Marcel finally admitted, sitting up in bed. He reached for his glasses on the bedside table, and flashes of his night with Louis echoed through Marcel’s mind. He shook his head wearily and sighed.

“Of course,” Zayn agreed, stepping into the dark bedroom. He toed off his shoes and sat on the bed next to Marcel. “I’m coming, just a sec.”

Marcel suddenly remembered the state of his kitchen, the abandoned food still on the countertops. “The food,” he mumbled, sliding towards the edge of the bed to go clean up.

Zayn stopped him with a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I took care of it, babe. Even cleaned a little; you’d be proud.”

Zayn climbed onto the soft duvet and curled an arm around Marcel’s tense shoulders. Marcel nodded wearily and rested his head on Zayn’s shoulder.

“Thanks, Zayn,” he whispered in the darkness.

“Hey, you’d do the same for me,” Zayn replied, squeezing Marcel’s shoulder. “Want to take off your glasses?”

Marcel laughed humorlessly. “Yeah. I’ve seen enough today.” Carefully, Marcel slid the glasses off his face and folded them on the night stand.

“Just rest awhile, okay?” Zayn suggested. “You don’t have to sleep. But rest if you can.”

“Okay,” Marcel yawned into Zayn’s shoulder.

There was a companionable silence in the bedroom for a few moments, and then Marcel spoke. “Do you think I could be dazzling?”

“I think you could be anything you wanted,” Zayn replied thoughtfully. “Especially dazzling.”

“I’m tired of being alone,” Marcel confessed into Zayn’s shoulder.

“Well,” Zayn mused. “You’ll be stuck with me forever and ever, so there’s that. I’ll still be ambling around annoying you when we’re old and grey.”

“Good,” Marcel sighed with a small smile. “Thank you. Can we watch Planet Earth for a while?”

“Which one?” Zayn asked, reaching for the remote to the TV.

“Umm. The North and South pole one, with the penguins.”

“Sure. Let’s do it.”

Marcel snuggled in closer to Zayn as the credits rolled on the TV screen. He hoped he would drift off to sleep, at least for a while, to give him the rest he needed to confront Louis. Tomorrow would be the day, he decided with a new determination. Marcel tuned into the comforting voice of David Attenborough and resolutely ignored the text from Louis waiting on his phone.

_ Happy Feet: Goodnight, love! Can’t wait to see you again :) xx _

_ * _

Marcel woke up groggy the next morning, feeling as if a truck had run over his head—then backed up and run over it again. His eyes were swollen from crying, and his nose was stuffed up. He heard a soft snore, and turned over to find Zayn, still in his nice clothes, curled up on top of the covers. Marcel smiled at the sight, and was definitely grateful he wasn’t waking up alone in his quiet flat this morning.

A quick check in the mirror confirmed that Marcel wasn’t looking his best—not a great start to The Day he talked to Louis. He tiptoed around his room, careful not to disturb Zayn, and went to take a scalding hot shower. Marcel emerged a few minutes later feeling energized, so he went to make breakfast. He pocketed his phone, ignoring the text from Louis for now.

Zayn shuffled into the kitchen in his rumpled clothes and socks when he smelt breakfast cooking.

“God bless you, Marcel,” he mumbled, blinking sleepily.

“Sit down; it’s almost ready,” Marcel called over his shoulder from where he stood at the stove. As he brought two plates to the table, Marcel’s phone buzzed a new text notification.

“Umm. You going to get that?” Zayn asked curiously, digging into his breakfast.

“Nope. Not right now. Now, we eat,” Marcel replied with finality.

“Okay,” Zayn shrugged. “You’re the boss. Speaking of which, are you taking another personal day?”

Marcel frowned; he hadn’t thought of that. “I guess so,” he mused. “I wanted to drop by the ballet studio this morning.”

Zayn nodded, still chewing his food. Marcel shrugged and added, “Better get it over with.”

Zayn looked up, surprise clearly written on his face. “You mean…”

“I’m gonna talk to Louis, yeah,” Marcel completed his sentence.

Zayn appeared to be choosing his words carefully. “Are you…planning on going alone?”

Marcel nodded slowly. “I think I should.”

“Sure, babe, whatever you need.”

“But,” Marcel hesitated. “Can I call you after? If you’re free.”

“I’ll be free,” Zayn assured him. “Anytime.”

Marcel nodded, and they finished breakfast together. When Zayn left to head to the office, Marcel dressed carefully and slowly. It helped calm him down. Button-up shirt. Trousers. Tie. Sweater vest. Shoes. Coordinating glasses. Marcel finally assessed himself in the mirror. Although his expression showed mild panic, everything was in place.

Marcel could put it off no longer. It was time.

On the way to the ballet studio where Louis usually worked in the mornings, Marcel tried to rehearse what he would say. How he would express himself. But he kept stumbling over the words. Frustrated, Marcel gave up and just hoped that in the moment, he would know what to say.

Visitors weren’t necessarily allowed into the studio during rehearsals, but Marcel got lucky. A group of dancers was just leaving, signaling the end of a session. Marcel wove through the crowd towards the room they were leaving. Too soon, his feet carried him to the doorway.

And there was Louis.

Standing with his back to Marcel, eyes down on his phone that he held in one hand. He had clearly just finished an intense rehearsal; his grey tee was sweaty, and sweat spiked his soft brown hair. He hadn’t seen Marcel yet. And Marcel just. Had to take one more moment to memorize Louis like this, exhausted but happy, before everything went to shit.

Marcel cleared his throat. “Louis?”

Louis whirled around at the sound of his name, already smiling as he recognized the voice. The studio was thankfully empty except for Louis, and Marcel took a tentative step into the room.

“Marcel!” Louis exclaimed with a grin. “I was just checking to see if you got my text. How are you?”

Marcel watched as Louis set his phone down on the bench by the wall and walked closer. His heart was beating so hard, Marcel worried Louis could hear it, and his palms started to sweat. When Marcel didn’t take another step closer, Louis halted in his tracks.

“Marcel? What’s going on?”

Marcel opened his mouth to reply, and nothing came out. His eyes widened in panic, and he didn’t know what to do. He shook his head, as if clearing his mind, and focused his eyes back on Louis.

Louis stood there, in the center of the studio, still in his ballet shoes. His expression had changed to alarm, and he frowned slightly. When Louis opened his mouth to speak, Marcel held up a hand to halt him.

“Louis, I. I need to talk to you about something,” was what Marcel finally managed to say.

“O…kay?” Louis replied, still looking very concerned for Marcel. And that was what finally pushed Marcel to start talking—that look of concern.  _ Fake _ concern, he now knew.

Marcel took a deep breath. “It’s just, I was speaking with a friend, and they inquired about something…odd to me.”

Louis slowly nodded for Marcel to continue.

“I didn’t sleep last night, I was so worried. I didn’t—still don’t know what to think. And I just need to know,” Marcel said in a rush, voice trembling with pent up emotion, “when we were going to talk about money.”

Marcel watched as a range of emotions registered on Louis’ face. Confusion gave way to frustration, which led to suspicion.

“Money,” Louis repeated, narrowing his eyes, as if testing the word out loud for the first time. “Explain, please.”

Marcel pushed his glasses up his nose in hesitation, and his hand shook unsteadily. “The first time we met, you told me about your dream to open your own studio, remember?”

Louis nodded slowly, crossing his arms. “Yes.”

“A plan for when you retire. A chance to give back to the community that once gave you that chance.”

“Correct.”

“And I, um. Really respect that. And I want you to make it happen. But,” Marcel said, steeling himself to continue, “I have to know. Were you going to ask me for help? Financially?”

Louis’ jaw dropped, and color bloomed in his cheeks. “Are you joking right now?”

“N-No,” Marcel whispered, glancing down at his shoes. He summoned all his courage to look Louis in the eye.

Louis nodded thoughtfully, and Marcel could practically see the gears turning in his mind. “Marcel, who put you up to this?” he asked.

“Put me up to—no one,” Marcel replied, confused. “No one’s making me do anything, Louis.”

“Including me?” Louis asked, resting one hand on his hip.

“That’s not what I—“

“Okay, let me get this straight. I’m to believe that you were just sitting at home thinking about your wealth, and decided to ask me if I’m just…using you for your money?”

“I—“ Marcel began, but Louis cut him off.

“Money which I have never asked for or wanted.”

“Louis, I—“

“And after all that we’ve said and done together, it was easy for you to believe that’s what I was after all along?”

“No!” Marcel interjected, growing frustrated. “I don’t believe it.”

“Yet here you are,” Louis replied, spreading his arms to encompass the studio. “You came all the way down here to accuse me of something you don’t  _ believe _ ?”

Marcel felt tongue tied. Nothing he was saying so far had helped. Marcel huffed out a sigh. “Because I would always wonder now,” he explained.

“About my motives,” Louis completed his sentence. “That’s what you mean, right?”

“Louis,” Marcel said desperately. “If you were me, wouldn’t you wonder the same thing? Maybe not now, or next week, or even years from now, but someday?”

“You mean, if I were you, rich and successful, would I wonder what a poor kid from nowhere wanted with me?”

“Well, yes, but—“

“Because if I were you, and I’d been hurt before, I would assume that this guy who loves you is just out for your money. What the fuck, Marcel.”

“You…love me?” Marcel breathed, daring to hope finally.

Louis laughed bitterly. “According to you, that’s not possible. According to you, I’m some kind of desperate whore who’s willing to do anything to get what he wants. Is that what you think?”

“Louis, no!” Marcel cried. “I would never.”

“You would never,” Louis repeated, voice deceptively calm. “Tell you what, Marcel. While you’re deciding just how deep this—this  _ deception _ goes, I can just tell you now. Not only would I never ask for a penny of your vast wealth, but I also would never accept it if you offered.”

“I am offering, though,” Marcel choked on a sob. “I’m offering anything and everything you want, just on the tiny, miniscule chance you’d feel the same way I do.”

“And what am I supposed to say to that?” Louis asked icily.

“Say anything,” Marcel begged. “If money’s what you need, then take it. I don’t care. Take it all. Because I lo—“

“Don’t you dare,” Louis said, voice cold. “Don’t you dare say you love me.”

“But I do! Despite all this, I do.”

“Yet you were so quick to believe the worst about me,” Louis tilted his head in contemplation. “What kind of love is that, Marcel? If that’s love, I don’t want anything to do with it.”

“Louis, please.”

“You know what, maybe you’re right. Maybe I have been thinking I needed your help, or someone’s. But here’s the thing. I’m not standing here because someone magnanimously bought me a place. I’m here because I have been working my entire life for it. And I may be poor in comparison, Marcel, but I have integrity. I’ve made it this far on my own, and if it takes me the rest of my life to make my plans a reality, then I’ll do it. Alone.”

“Louis,” Marcel pleaded, tears finally streaming unchecked down his face. “I never meant—“

“And when I succeed—because I will succeed, I promise you that—it will be with the knowledge that I never took a penny from you. Do you see, Marcel? I don’t need you. Or anyone.”

Marcel tried to reply, but could only sob brokenly. “L-Lous.”

“So no, Marcel, since you asked, I cannot be bought. And if I never see your face again, so much the better. Don’t ever come around me again, seriously. I’m done.”

Marcel had thought he had his heart broken before, but it was nothing like this. It felt like someone’s fist was squeezing his heart until bursting point. It was too much.

“I’ll go then,” he said brokenly. “I…okay.”

“Go,” Louis said, turning his back to Marcel and hanging his head. “Please.”

Marcel simply turned on the spot and walked away, through the studio doors and out into the cold, London afternoon. He should call a taxi, but Marcel set off walking the long way home to his empty flat, more alone than ever before.

*

Alone in the studio, Louis took a slow breath in, and let it out. Slow breath in, let it out. He ran a hand through his still sweaty fringe, and his hand shook. The fury that had pumped through his veins moments ago faded, and was replaced by a dull shock. He felt dizzy for a moment, and stumbled over to the bench to sit down.

Louis’ whole body felt cold, like the blood running through his veins had turned to icy slush. The sweat from his workout left him shivering in his thin dance attire. The past five minutes were a blur for Louis, but one word played on a loop through his panicked mind.

Marcel.

Louis knew he had dismissed Marcel—had actually begged him to go—and before Marcel even pushed through the studio door, Louis regretted it. Yes, regret—that was exactly the word that summed up Louis’ emotions right now. What had he said to Marcel? Louis’ mind was hazy on the details, as if his brain was shutting off to protect itself from the trauma. A glance around the familiar studio made one thing crystal clear, however.

Marcel was gone.

He was gone, and Louis had said awful things to him. The realization dawned on Louis as the ice flowed in his veins and the clock on the wall ticked. What had Louis said? Louis rubbed an exhausted hand across his face and tried to focus on his breathing. But as his heart rate slowed, tears pricked his eyes. Louis felt a lump in his throat, and despair weighed down his stomach. A stomach that moments ago, had been full of butterflies when he turned to see Marcel.

Louis felt sick. Sick and betrayed, but mostly sick. He tried to breathe, to think. Unbidden, though, an image of Marcel, tears flowing down his shocked face, stood out in Louis’ mind. Louis had done that. Whatever he said had caused Marcel such intense pain that he walked away, likely forever.

_ Do you see, Marcel?  _ Louis remembered saying.  _ I don’t need you. Or anyone. _

Louis would remember Marcel’s expression forever. The way his lovely green eyes turned red from crying, and the way his face seemed to collapse into grief when Louis spoke.

_ I don’t need you. _

Louis knew it was the furthest thing from the truth, sitting alone now in his beloved studio. In such a short time that they had known each other, Marcel had become important in Louis’ life. He was Louis’ first thought in the morning, and the last before he went to sleep each night. And now he was gone.

Confusion wracked Louis’ tired body, and he slumped back against the wall. Whatever had driven Marcel here today, Louis knew it wasn’t his intention to say goodbye. Deep down, he knew that Marcel did love and respect him, more than anyone Louis had ever met. And now that he wasn’t so focused on his own feelings, he considered Marcel’s.

Marcel, who was gentle and soft-spoken and all things kind. Marcel, who showed more courage than anyone Louis had ever known. Marcel, who must have known Louis would be furious in response, still braved it all to confront Louis.

Marcel, who even when he called Louis out, did it with a compassion and heart that awed Louis.

Marcel, who was going home alone to his beautiful, lonely flat, heartbroken.

Tears brimmed in Louis’ eyes, and he let them fall unchecked. Marcel had trusted Louis with his heart, and Louis had let one argument destroy it. When faced with accusations, Louis attacked Marcel where he was most vulnerable: his self-esteem and timid desire to be wanted.

_ I don’t need you. _

That was all it took, really, to break someone as tenderhearted and genuine as Marcel. And, Louis realized, feeling a wave of panic, Marcel would believe him. He left today believing that Louis didn’t love him—would never love him, and what had Louis done?

Turned his back on Marcel and demanded he leave.

That was how Louis had treated the one person who held his heart. His breath came quicker now, panic rising in his chest, and the tears fell in a steady stream.

Beside him, Louis’ forgotten phone buzzed, and for a moment he dared to hope. Dared to believe it could be Marcel. Louis blinked the tears out of his eyes impatiently and read the name on the screen.

Niall.

Louis’ whole body shook with the depth of his despair, and he resolutely turned his eyes away from the phone. He didn’t deserve to talk to Niall now, or anyone. Didn’t deserve Niall’s sympathy and kindness. Louis waited for the phone to stop buzzing, and then he stashed it in his dance bag. He stood unsteadily and began layering on his street clothes, suddenly desperate to get out of the studio.

For a wild moment, he thought about running outside and chasing Marcel down. Imagined catching up to him, wrapping him up in his arms, and apologizing for everything. But Louis knew Marcel was long gone. And more than that, Louis knew he didn’t deserve another chance.

He had been so intent on preserving his—what had he said? Integrity?—that he had chased off the one person he truly loved. All Louis’ principles and integrity rang hollow now. Inconsolable, Louis grabbed his bag and shuffled out of the studio into the deceptively bright afternoon, Marcel’s name still echoing in his mind.

*

Louis could only ignore the buzzing for so long. Niall had texted him again after leaving the studio, and when Louis didn’t reply, he tried calling. Louis let it go to voicemail. But then Liam called, asking what Louis would like for dinner that night since he was shopping. And then Louis’ mother called. That was the straw that broke Louis.

He answered the call with a shaky “hello” and Jay’s cheerful tone changed instantly.

“Louis? What’s—are you crying?”

“Um,” Louis began, taking a deep breath. “Have been, yeah.”

“Baby, what’s wrong?” Jay asked, voice full of concern.

“I, um. Screwed up, mum. Pretty big.”

“But you can make it right, can’t you love?”

Louis laughed humorlessly. “Doubt it. It’s a long story. Don’t worry; I’ll be okay.”

“I know you will, love, but it might help to talk about it,” Jay mused. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

Louis took a bracing breath and walked to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. It was going to be a long night.

Long after Liam came home and prepared a dinner of spaghetti, then went to meet up with his girlfriend, Maya, Louis sat on his bed staring down at his phone. After telling his mother everything that had happened, Jay suggested he try to reconcile with Marcel.

But that was easier said than done. For one thing, Louis’ pride still stung from Marcel’s accusations. And more importantly, he didn’t know what to say. Louis couldn’t exactly text Marcel or even call if he didn’t know where to begin. Louis had a lot of feelings about the things he and Marcel had said to each other, but putting them into words was difficult. And it had been a long, shitty day.

Louis pondered a message, and finally opened his last conversation with Marcel. Hands shaking slightly, Louis carefully typed out a message. He doubted Marcel would reply that night, if at all, so Louis reluctantly set his phone aside and crawled into bed. He decided he would give Marcel 24 hours to reply, and if he didn’t, Louis would try again. And again, and again, if necessary, because Marcel was worth fighting for. They were worth fighting for.

Louis lay awake as long as he could, hoping against hope to hear his phone buzz a reply from Marcel. When it didn’t come, Louis wearily turned over and drifted off into a restless sleep, his message to Marcel prominent in his mind.

_ Can we talk? Please? _

_ * _

Louis awoke from a restless sleep the next morning with a feeling of dread. Instinctively, he knew something was wrong. For one thing, it was a weekday, and Louis could hear Liam’s distinct voice murmuring in the other room. He was supposed to be going to work. With bleary eyes, Louis reached for his phone and checked for new messages. There were none.

In fact, when Louis opened his message thread with Marcel, his last message hadn’t even been opened. That made reality slowly sink in. Yesterday wasn’t just a bad dream; it really happened. And Marcel was gone.

Louis sighed and sat up in bed, all the remorse from yesterday flooding in. At the sound of his stirring, Liam stopped talking down the hall. A moment later, Louis heard footsteps striding down the short hall. And then, instead of a knock, the door flung open.

“Morning, sunshine,” a cheerful voice said, and Louis squinted from the light streaming in from the open door.

Without further ado, Niall bounced into the bedroom and pulled the curtains open. He turned to face Louis with a flourish, grinning way too happily for this hour.

“Rise and shine!”

“Niall? What…why?” Louis asked feebly, burying his face in a pillow.

“He speaks! Amazing,” Niall replied jovially. He strode across the bedroom and plopped down on the bed, jostling Louis where he was laying. He reached out to poke Louis where he was huddled on the bed. Louis hissed and jerked away out of arm’s reach.

“Time’s it?” Louis asked groggily.

“Hmm,” Niall mused, checking his phone, “time for you to answer your texts. Or calls. Maybe both.”

Louis squeezed his eyes closed and prayed this was all a bad dream.

“See, when I didn’t hear back from you, I thought to myself, ‘maybe Louis really shattered that ankle this time and needs an understudy—aka me!—to perform in the Nutcracker.’ And because I’m such a good friend,” he continued, chucking a pillow at Louis’ body, “I came over to see what was going on.”

“Niall,” Louis sighed, “how did you know where I live?”

“I have my ways.”

“So…my ankle isn’t broken,” Louis replied.

“But your heart is?” Niall guessed, edging closer to Louis on the bed.

Louis frowned and squinted one eye open. “Who told you that?”

“You just did,” Niall chuckled. “Also, I texted Zayn when you didn’t reply, and instead of offering to ask Marcel, he suggested I ask  _ you _ what’s going on.”

Several thoughts were swimming through Louis’ head, but the only thing he could articulate was, “You text Zayn?”

“Course,” Niall countered. “I text everyone. Now, back to you.”

Louis sighed and slowly sat up, running a hand through his messy hair. “I don’t know what to tell you, Niall. Everything’s just…gone to shit.”

“Okay. Explain.”

Louis struggled to find the words. “Marcel brought up something that kind of, um, upset me. And so, I kind of fired back at him. Said, like. Some awful things, really. Shit, Niall. He’s not answering my messages. I fucked up.”

“Right,” Niall said slowly, processing Louis’ words. “So what are you gonna do now?”

Louis shook his head. “I don’t know. Call him?”

“And say…what?”

“That I’m sorry. That I miss him and love him, even though I said I didn’t.”

“Sounds fair,” Niall replied. “You gonna call him, then?”

“Yeah,” Louis replied quietly. “I don’t know what else to do.”

Niall considered this for a moment, then patted Louis on the shoulder. “You love him, right?”

“More than anything, yes.”

“Then don’t stop until he knows it,” Niall concluded, rising from the bed. “Now! I’m gonna make tea. Join me.”

“You’re a good friend, Niall,” Louis replied with a small smile. He climbed out of the bed and followed Niall to the kitchen.

“Bring your phone,” Niall called over his shoulder. “We have a heart to fix up.”

*

Two cups of tea and another pep talk from Niall later, Louis could put it off no longer. He had to call Marcel. With trembling hands, Louis picked up his phone from the kitchen table. Although his message to Marcel had gone unanswered, perhaps he would answer the phone? Louis pressed the call button, and the phone began to ring. Louis cast Niall a panicked glance, and Niall nodded reassuringly.

“You’re sorry and you want to speak with him,” Niall whispered a reminder as the phone rang.

And rang. And rang.

Finally, the call went to voicemail. Louis’ heart sank at the realization that Marcel might be ignoring him. Might be moving on with someone new.

_ Hi, you’ve reached Marcel Styles,  _ a deep, familiar voice said in greeting.  _ I’m sorry I missed your call. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Have a great day! _

At the beep, Louis took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “Hi, Marcel. It’s Louis.”

Louis cracked his eyes open to find Niall nodding encouragingly. “I need to talk to you when you get the chance. And I just wanted to tell you, I’m sorry. Please call me back. Bye.”

Louis clicked the end call button and sank back in his chair. He set his phone carefully on the table top.

“God, I haven’t been that nervous since my Royal Ballet audition,” Louis said breathlessly. “What do we do now?”

“Now, we wait,” Niall replied. “He’s probably at work, remember.”

“And if he doesn’t call me back?”

“Then you try again.”

Louis nodded faintly. “I really fucked this one up, didn’t I, Niall?”

Niall smiled grimly. “Looks like it, mate. But don’t give up.”

“I won’t,” Louis vowed, staring at the phone sitting on the table.

“So,” what are we gonna do while we wait?” Niall asked, drumming his fingers on the table.

Louis smiled in spite of his heartbreak. He was glad he had someone like Niall to keep him company now.

“I was supposed to have rehearsal this afternoon,” Louis confessed.

“Let’s go, then,” Niall said. “I’ll watch your phone in case…you know.”

“In case the universe is generous enough to give me another chance, and Marcel actually calls?” Louis chuckled self-deprecatingly. “Sounds like a plan.”

*

Louis had never been so distracted in a rehearsal before, and it showed. While he didn’t get any steps wrong, his heart clearly wasn’t in it. Every few minutes, his eyes would wander over to where Niall was holding his phone on the bench by the door. As the rehearsal wore on, Louis became more desperate. He did something he had never done before in his professional career, and asked for a break. Sara Rose, who had been watching Louis with growing concern, now pulled him aside.

“Louis, what’s wrong?” she whispered with a slight frown.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Louis replied, hanging his head. “It’s personal. I just. I feel awful.”

Sara Rose rested a slender hand on Louis’ shoulder. “You’re gonna have to channel all that emotion into your dancing,” she said. “Whatever you’re feeling, just let it drive you. It works, I promise.”

“Really?” Louis asked doubtfully.

“Really,” she confirmed with a small smile.

“Yeah, ok, I’ll try that,” Louis sighed. “Thanks.”

“And whatever you do, don’t drop me.”

Louis laughed and followed Sara back to center stage. He shook out his tired muscles and flexed his feet in his worn black ballet shoes. For over a decade now, dance had been his refuge from all the things that bombarded him. As Louis stood in position waiting for the music to play, he now wondered if he could dance off a broken heart.

*

Across town, Marcel was coming unraveled. So far today, he had dusted the bookshelves and the picture frames, polished his desk, and paced the floor until a clear path was worn in the carpet.

On his cherished desk, there sat his phone. Marcel, currently walking around his office restlessly, stopped his pacing to glance at the phone. He knew there was an unanswered text from Louis, as well as a voicemail. But Marcel couldn’t face them just yet.

Marcel had dared to hope that Louis would reach out to him in a few days or weeks, when his ire had worn off a little. But he couldn’t have predicted Louis would contact him just hours after their fight. That could only mean one thing, Marcel had realized: Louis wasn’t finished fighting.

And Marcel just. He couldn’t continue fighting with someone he loved. He wasn’t a fighter, deep down. He was happiest when everyone he loved was happy and getting along. Marcel knew his limits, and he knew he could not physically or emotionally handle another angry word from Louis. So when his phone rang earlier that morning, Marcel had panicked and watched in horror as his ringtone for Louis played in the quiet office. Call him sentimental, but Marcel had taken a liking to the song they had danced to in the studio that night. And listening to the lyrics, remembering happier times with Louis in the midst of their conflict broke Marcel’s heart all over again.

_ You can count on me like 1, 2, 3, I’ll be there _

Marcel now warily approached the phone on his desk, a mix of emotions converging inside him. He clicked on his voicemail, and his finger hovered over the new message from Louis. It would be so easy to just press the delete button. Nothing quite like living in denial, right?

For the second time that day, Marcel chickened out and hurried to close his voicemail. Maybe Zayn would know what to do with it. Marcel opened his conversation with Zayn and typed out a quick message. Then he placed his phone back on the gleaming desk and resumed pacing, growing more anxious with each lap around the room.

To Zayn’s earlier inquiry,  _ How’s it going today? Want to talk?  _ Marcel simply replied:

_ How can you mend a broken heart? _

_ * _

By the end of the workday, Marcel had ceased pacing and was now slumped back in his desk chair (which still squeaked), listening to Al Green lament about his broken heart. Marcel could relate. That was how Zayn found him, listening to music with eyes glazed over and his chin propped in his hand.

“Marcel?” Zayn asked cautiously, stepping into the office.

Marcel didn’t look up, but mumbled in greeting. “I didn’t think it was possible, but it actually gets sadder the more you listen to it.”

Zayn winced and sat down across from Marcel. “Maybe that’s enough for one day, babe.”

Marcel sighed and slowly looked up, green eyes sorrowful. He wordlessly slid his phone across the desk.

“What happened?” Zayn frowned, picking up the phone.

“Voicemail. I haven’t listened to it. Couldn’t do it alone.”

Zayn clicked the voicemail on Marcel’s phone and raised his eyebrows when he saw an unopened message from Happy Feet.

“Want me to play it?”

“Please,” Marcel said, sliding his glasses of his face and wearily rubbing his temples.

Zayn hesitated for a moment, then nodded. He pushed play, and Louis’ voice filled Marcel’s office. He greeted Marcel, then said:

_ I need to talk to you when you get the chance. And I just wanted to tell you, I’m sorry. Please call me back. Bye. _

Marcel slowly put his glasses back on, blinking in surprise. He looked from the phone, to Zayn, and back to the phone in awe.

“Wow,” Zayn mused. “Did he just…?”

“Apologize?” Marcel finished for him. “Sounds like it.”

Zayn carefully placed the phone back on the desk. His expression was conflicted when he looked up at Marcel.

“Do you believe him?”

“That he’s sorry?” Marcel asked. “Yes, I do.”

“But?” Zayn said.

“But,” Marcel said, shoulders sagging, “now what do I do?”

“What do you want to do?”

“I…I don’t know,” Marcel confessed, biting his lip. “I miss him. But he said…he sounded final yesterday in the studio. Has he changed his mind?”

“I don’t know,” Zayn admitted. “There’s only one person who can answer that.”

“You think I should talk to him?”

“I think…that you should do whatever you need to do. If that’s call him back, do it; if that’s sleep on it and talk tomorrow, you can do that, too.”

“I miss him,” Marcel mumbled, slouching back in his chair. “But we said some awful things to each other.”

“Awful enough to never speak again?” Zayn said.

“Maybe. No. I don’t know.”

“Let’s get dinner; it’s getting late. You might feel better with some good food in you.”

Marcel rose from his desk chair and stretched. “Do you think,” he began hesitantly, “that he’ll ever forgive me? For what I said?”

“Only one way to find out,” Zayn shrugged. “He called you; he reached out to you. Don’t give up hope quite yet, okay?”

*

Louis spent most of the evening pacing his room and staring glumly at his quiet phone. He had no way of knowing if Marcel had listened to his message yet, or if he had simply deleted it. So Louis alternated pacing and obsessively checking his phone. He had lost track of time when the idea struck him to try calling just one more time. What did he have to lose?    
  
Alone now, without Niall to bolster his morale, Louis took a deep breath and clicked the call button. At the sound of the phone ringing, Louis held his breath. Maybe Marcel was home from work now; maybe he had reconsidered and was willing to talk. Maybe—   
  
_ Hi, you’ve reached Marcel Styles. I’m sorry I missed your call. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Have a great day! _   
  
Louis let out a frustrated sigh and waited for the beep.    
  
“Hi, it’s Louis…again. I’m sorry to bother you, but I really need to talk to you, Marcel. Please call me back if you get a minute. Thank you. Bye.”   
  
Louis clicked the end call button and tossed his phone on the bed. While he still dared to hope Marcel would change his mind, Louis knew deep down he wouldn’t be getting a call back tonight. Exhausted from his rehearsal and from missing Marcel, Louis climbed into bed. He placed his phone within arm’s reach on the bed and willed sleep to give his weary mind a break.    
  
*

To Marcel’s surprise, time passed. First, the night ended and he woke in bed to sunlight streaming through the curtains. He went to work, and actually worked. He came home and cooked lasagna for dinner, listening to an old Frank Sinatra CD. A day passed, then two days, and then a week. Louis stopped calling and texting. And time just…passed.

It’s not that Marcel forgot about Louis. On the contrary, he thought about Louis at the oddest times throughout his day. Every day. No matter what triggered a memory of Louis, the instinct to grab his phone and text him back was so strong, Marcel didn’t think he could ignore it.

But Marcel was stuck. He knew he wanted to be with Louis again, but how could they ever go back to the way things were before? Everything had changed. And Marcel didn’t know what to say or do to make it better. So he waited, hoping for inspiration to strike. And waited. And waited.

It seemed like no time had passed since the night Louis stayed over, and Marcel woke to soft blue eyes studying him in the morning light. But Marcel knew it had been seven days, eight hours, and thirty minutes, give or take, since he last saw Louis. And now the distance between them might as well have been a continent rather than just a city.

And then it was the night before the season finale at the Royal Ballet, and Marcel was standing in front of his closet, torn between going or not going. For an hour now, Marcel had walked into the closet, scanned his collection of clothing, shook his head, and walked out, determined he would not attend the ballet. And then five minutes later, he was back in his closet.

When his phone rang, Marcel held a tentative hope it was Louis. He was ready to talk to him, he thought. Marcel desperately wanted to make things right between them, even if it was just to end on a happier note. Eagerly, Marcel grabbed his phone and read the screen.

It was Niall.

Surprised, Marcel answered the phone and said hello.

“Niall? What’s up?”

“Hey, Marcel! Miss you, mate. Are you down to meet up for a pub night soon?” Niall boomed across the phone line.

“I, sure,” Marcel replied, wondering where this was going.

As if reading his mind, Niall chuckled. “Guess you’re wondering why I’m calling you out of the blue, eh?”

“Kind of,” Marcel admitted, perching on the edge of his bed. “What’s going on?”

“This is strictly between you and me, okay?” Niall warned.

“O-Okay,” Marcel replied, growing uneasy.

“Okay. Now, what would you say if I told you I could get you in backstage at the show tomorrow to talk to a certain heartbroken dancer?”

“Louis?” Marcel said breathily. “Really? Why?”

“Because,” Niall sighed, “he’s a mess, and I suspect you are, too. And I hate seeing friends suffer when they don’t have to.”

“Niall, it’s complicated,” Marcel began to explain, but Niall cut him off.

“It always is. But is he worth it?”

“Of course,” Marcel said, eyes widening with hope.

“I can get you in, but it’s up to you to work things out, okay?” Niall replied. “Deal?”

Marcel had never been more sure of anything in his life. “Deal.”

“Meet me around back at 7:00,” Niall concluded. “And if anybody asks, I had nothing to do with this.”

“I’ll be there,” Marcel vowed, feeling lighter than he’d been all week. “And thank you, really.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Niall cautioned. “You’ve got your work cut out for you.”

With that, the line went dead, and Marcel stared at his phone in awe. He shook his head in disbelief, then slowly rose from the bed and walked back into his meticulous closet. If there was even a miniscule chance that Louis would see him, Marcel was going to make the most of it.

*

Too soon, it seemed to Marcel, it was time to meet Niall at the Royal Opera House. Marcel called for his car, then double checked his reflection in the mirror. He had settled tonight on an understated black suit with a crisp black shirt and his favorite black-framed glasses. The only color that stood out in his outfit was the deep purple scarf he wound around his neck as he left the flat.

In the car, Marcel pulled out his phone and clicked on his conversation with Zayn. Earlier, Marcel had explained Niall’s plan to get him in to see Louis before the ballet. Zayn had sounded cautiously optimistic, reminding Marcel that things would work out if they were meant to.

Now, Marcel read Zayn’s last text, sent ten minutes ago.

_ What did you decide to do? _

Marcel swallowed down his nerves and typed out a reply, then spent the rest of the ride watching the city lights pass through the tinted windows of his limo.

_ I’m going to get him back. _

_ * _

True to his word, Niall was pacing at the back entrance of the opera house when Marcel turned the corner. And he looked as nervous as Marcel felt. Niall looked up at the sound of footsteps approaching, and his expression brightened.

“Thank god,” Niall gasped, opening his arms for a hug. “Are you ready, Marcel?”

Marcel received Niall’s crushing hug with fondness. “I, um. I think so.”

“Now there’s just one little detail I forgot to mention,” Niall said, pulling back from the hug and holding Marcel at arm’s length.

“Okay?”

“Louis doesn’t know you’re coming,” Niall said, flinching a little.

“You didn’t tell him?” Marcel exclaimed. “Niall, why?”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time; I don’t know. Now,” Niall continued, taking a deep breath, “let’s just go and see what happens. Jesus, no one told me this matchmaking business was so damned stressful.”

“But what if he won’t see me?” Marcel hesitated.

“I can get you in the door,” Niall promised. “Then it’s all up to you. Now, let’s go before someone sees us.”

Marcel shook his head in wonder, but followed Niall into the opera house, each step taking him closer to Louis.

*

In a private dressing room backstage at the Royal Opera House, Louis stared at his reflection in a lighted mirror. He assessed the circles under his eyes, poorly covered by concealer makeup, a testament to the lack of sleep Louis had gotten that week. Louis studied his carefully styled hair, combed away from his face and fixed with hairspray. His critical eyes scanned down to his dance costume, minus the jacket. His tights were pristine and new, and the shirt had been carefully tailored to fit Louis’ frame. He had chosen his nicest pair of ballet shoes for the performance. At a glance, Louis looked put together—the audience wouldn’t suspect anything was wrong—but inside, he was filled with despair.

His whole adult life, dance had been what Louis turned to when life got hectic, or when he was overwhelmed with stress and emotion. It was his outlet, but also his medium for self-expression. It was his art. But tonight, as he prepared for the season finale at the Royal Ballet, Louis didn’t feel that connection with dance. He simply felt lost.

Louis’ mind was a jumble of thoughts and regret. At the forefront, though, was Marcel. Always Marcel. Even now, after so many days apart, he was all Louis could think about. Was he sleeping well? Was he happy at work? Was he lonely in his picture-perfect flat? Louis felt actual grief at their separation. And alone in the dressing room before the biggest show of the season, Louis suspected deep down, he would always feel that way.

Louis thought about calling his mother, but they had just talked the night before. He knew Jay was busy with work and his siblings, and didn’t want to worry her. He thought about wandering over to the ladies’ dressing room to hang out with Sara Rose. But she was likely still getting ready for the show. Louis paced the floor for a few moments, trying to focus his mind on the task at hand.

That was how Niall found him two minutes later when he barged in unannounced.

“Look alive, Louis!” Niall greeted, striding into the room. “Ready for the show?”

Louis shrugged, trying to smile. “I guess. What’s up?”

Niall briefly looked over his shoulder, then turned to face Louis. His expression had a new urgency Louis hadn’t seen before.

“Listen, someone’s here to see you,” Niall explained, choosing his words carefully. He pulled Louis into a bone-crushing hug, and whispered in Louis’ ear, “don’t fuck this one up, Lou.”

Confused, Louis watched as Niall stepped back and then slowly backed out of the room. “I’ll be just outside if you need me.”

And then Niall was gone.

Louis had a moment to ponder this weird, though welcome appearance by Niall. What had he meant? Fuck what up? Louis stared at the doorway, wondering what Niall could have possibly meant. But Louis didn’t wonder for long. Because Niall was replaced by another figure in the doorway, and Louis promptly stopped breathing.

It was Marcel.

He looked more nervous and unsure than ever, Louis realized, but he was here. And Louis didn’t know where to look first. There were the trademark glasses, covering the most beautiful green eyes Louis had ever seen. An impeccable black suit. A familiar tall, slender figure. Louis went back to Marcel’s face, desperate to meet his eyes. If this was it, and Marcel was saying goodbye for good, then Louis was going to look his fill at those eyes while he could.

Only a moment had passed, a few rapid heartbeats, but Louis stood glued to the spot. Marcel opened his mouth to speak, and Louis’ whole world hinged on his words.

“Hi, Louis.”

It was a simple greeting, but the sound of Marcel’s voice after a week of only hearing it on a voicemail recording was a miracle. Louis felt like crying. When Louis finally found his voice, he let out the breath he had been holding all this time.

“Marcel,” he replied, completely awed.

Marcel smiled, just a tiny fraction, and took a tentative step inside the dressing room. Louis watched him look around the room, taking in the lighted mirrors, makeup tables, and a sofa that had seen better days. When his eyes landed back on Louis’, they were unreadable.

“How are you?” Marcel asked, eyes boring into Louis’, and Louis flashed back to the gala when he had met eyes with Marcel for the first time. Louis got the feeling again that he wasn’t just being looked at, but  _ seen _ .

Louis intended to say he was fine, but that’s not what came out of his mouth. Instead, under Marcel’s thoughtful gaze, Louis found himself on the verge of tears as he replied.

“I’m…here. How are you?”

Marcel nodded at Louis’ words, and chose his next words carefully. “I had to see you. And I’m sorry if you don’t want to see me now. I won’t bother you. But I just want to say, from the bottom of my heart, I’m sorry.”

Louis’ jaw dropped. He knew he looked foolish standing there with his mouth hanging open and tears welling up in his eyes, but Louis was frozen.

“And, um,” Marcel continued, when it was clear Louis was unable to reply, “I have the utmost respect for you, and would never mean to put you down.”

Louis’ breath came quicker now, his pulse skyrocketing as he listened to Marcel speak. He blinked back the tears impatiently. All he could do was listen as Marcel continued.

“You’re the most hardworking, honest person I’ve ever met. And if I made you feel anything less than that for even a second, I’m sorry.”

Marcel took another careful step towards Louis. “So, I. Came here to say, I’m sorry, and I understand if this has to be the last time I see you. I just couldn’t say goodbye without telling you, I have nothing but goodwill towards you, and honestly wish you all the success in the world, because you deserve it.”

Louis felt himself nodding faintly, taking in Marcel’s words. At the back of his mind, words were forming, but he couldn’t ignore the feeling Marcel’s apology gave him. It started in his stomach, fluttering like butterflies, and then it rose in his throat, manifesting itself in the tears brimming in Louis’ eyes.

It was hope.

Hope that Louis could achieve his dreams, no matter the setbacks. Hope that even if he had to say goodbye to Marcel tonight, he would survive somehow. Hope for a bright future.

“A wise man once told me,” Marcel continued with an enigmatic smile, “that when life knocks you down seven times, you rise eight. And I know you will. So,” Marcel concluded, eyes glittering with emotion, “if this is the last time I get to speak to you, that’s what I want to say. That I believe in you, always.”

And then it happened. First, one lone tear fell from Louis’ eye. And then another. And another. Louis let them fall unchecked, blinking slowly as his heart felt full for the first time in a week. And it was because of Marcel. Because this gentle, selfless man had gone out of his way to inspire Louis, expecting nothing in return.

“M-Marcel,” Louis breathed, unable to hold back any longer. “I can’t…I don’t—“ he cut off in frustration, overwhelmed with emotion. “Come here.”

Marcel’s eyes widened, but he nodded slowly and took a few steps closer. He stopped about three feet from Louis, nervous to step closer.

“Closer,” Louis urged hoarsely, swallowing the lump in his throat. He waited patiently as Marcel stepped closer, close enough to reach out and touch.

Louis cleared his throat, knowing his next words carried significant weight. “I want you close enough to do this,” Louis murmured, stepping closer to Marcel and bracing his hands on Marcel’s broad shoulders, “when I tell you I’m sorry, too.”

Marcel’s breath hitched, and he opened his mouth to protest, but Louis gently shushed him.

“Marcel, listen to me,” Louis urged, meeting Marcel’s wide eyes. “You are the kindest, most inspiring, loveliest person I know. You’re so beautiful, inside and out—you know that right?”

Marcel blinked rapidly, tears forming in his eyes now, too. He shook his head wordlessly.

“Yes, you are,” Louis insisted patiently. “And I’m sorry if I made you doubt that for even a moment. And,” he continued, slowly cradling Marcel’s face in his hands, “I want you  _ this _ close to tell you I love you, and always will.”

Marcel sucked in a breath in surprise, and tears began to fall down his face. “L-Louis,” he stammered, completely taken aback.

“I love you, Marcel,” Louis repeated, gently wiping the tears from Marcel’s face. “I’ve loved you since I saw you at the gala. I’ve loved you since we danced in the studio, and you worried about stepping on my feet. I’ve loved you since you played Clair de Lune for me. And for as long as you’ll let me, I won’t let you forget it. I’ll tell you every day if I get the chance.”

“Louis, don’t you know? You must know,” Marcel said, taking a shaky breath, “that I love you, too.” He leaned into Louis’ touch, feeling as if only Louis’ delicate hands were holding him together at this point. “And all I ever wanted was a, a partnership with you. Not a financial one,” he laughed under his breath, “but a real relationship. With you. Together.”

Louis smiled softly, feeling truly alive for the first time all week. “That’s all I want, too.”

Marcel sniffled and smiled tentatively. “Really?”

“Really,” Louis promised, stepping still closer, until they were breathing the same air.

Marcel smiled, then—a genuine smile, and it was like the sun breaking through storm clouds. It was radiant. For Louis, it was everything.

Louis carefully wiped away the last of Marcel’s tears with his shirt sleeve. “I’ve missed this,” he whispered, taking in Marcel’s smile. “I’ve missed  _ you _ .”

“Missed you, too,” Marcel confessed.

“Can I—may I kiss you, Marcel?” Louis asked, searching Marcel’s eyes for signs of doubt. There were none.

“You don’t have to ask,” Marcel whispered, cheeks blushing pink. “You never have to ask.”

Louis smiled then, his heart pounding like this was the first time. He balanced on his tiptoes and pressed a soft kiss to Marcel’s lips, memorizing the sensation. It felt like nothing Louis had ever experienced before; he felt surrounded by warmth and comfort and so, so much love. Marcel’s hands came up to brace Louis’ waist, as Louis balanced on his toes. All the years and rehearsals spent practicing releves and lifts were suddenly worth it for a new reason. And this time, Louis didn’t wobble on his toes.

“Alright, ya lovebirds,” a voice interrupted, accompanied by a knock on the doorframe. “It’s almost show time.”

Louis pulled back from Marcel’s lips reluctantly to stare at Niall, who was leaning against the doorframe with a smug expression.

“And you’re welcome, by the way.”

Louis met Marcel’s eyes, to find them brimming with amusement and fondness. “Thank you, Niall,” they said in unison, and then began to giggle.

“Let’s go, you two,” Niall sighed, rolling his eyes.

Marcel dropped his hands from Louis’ waist, and Louis lowered back down to his heels, feeling a pleasant burn in his calves. A thought came to Louis, and he paused.

“Marcel, would you like to watch from backstage?”

Marcel’s face brightened. “Really?”

“Sure,” Louis said. “I mean, only if you want.”

“I want,” Marcel replied. “I’ve always wanted to go backstage.”

“Let’s do it, then,” Louis proposed, grabbing his jacket and reaching out to lace his fingers with Marcel’s. Marcel squeezed his fingers, and together they followed Niall to wait backstage for the show to begin. Louis couldn’t stop smiling, feeling so light he feared he would float across the stage tonight. But he knew this time, Marcel would be watching from the wings.

*

As Louis took his position on stage for the Nutcracker performance, the smile on his face never left. He could see Marcel in his peripheral vision, and stood up a little straighter and held his head a little higher in response. As the conductor called the orchestra to order on the other side of the heavy, red curtain, Louis snuck a glance at Marcel.

Marcel was standing beside Niall, out of the way of the dancers waiting in the wings, a giddy smile on his face. When Louis caught his eye, Marcel’s smile softened to that private, quiet smile reserved just for Louis.

_ Love you,  _ Marcel mouthed across the way.

Louis’ heart soared, and he returned the “love you” to Marcel with a grin. Then, the overture began. Excitement pumped through Louis’ veins as the familiar music played. And when the curtain opened on the first act of the ballet, Louis danced the performance of his life.

Subconsciously, Louis was focusing on the steps he knew by heart now; he could see beyond the stage lights that there was a full house tonight. But as Louis moved across the stage with a newfound confidence, he found Marcel’s words from earlier on a loop in his head.

_ I believe in you, always. _

When the curtain closed on the performance, it was to a standing ovation from the audience. All around Louis, dancers were cheering and congratulating one another on their performance. But Louis turned around and walked straight off stage and into Marcel’s waiting arms.

“You did it!” Marcel cheered, wrapping Louis in a tight embrace. “I knew you could.”

“I love you,” Louis replied breathlessly, ignoring the sweat pouring down his face from exertion.

“I love you, too,” Marcel replied, brushing a warm kiss to Louis’ cheek.

“Louis! Curtain call,” Sara Rose called from across the floor.

Louis pulled back a fraction, unable to do anything but grin at Marcel.

“Go,” Marcel urged, gesturing towards the waiting company and the adoring crowd with a smile. He pressed a kiss to Louis’ forehead and whispered, “But save the last dance for me.”

“Always,” Louis murmured, and then he turned to walk back toward the bright lights and cheering crowd, knowing Marcel was behind him, and always would be.

*


	5. Chapter 5

V. Epilogue

“True love stories never have endings.”

\--Richard Bach

 

After Louis’ Nutcracker performance, a funny thing happened. He was packing up his dance bag after class one day, when his phone rang. Hoping it was Marcel calling about dinner that night, Louis answered the phone eagerly.

The static on the line should have clued Louis in that it was not, in fact, Marcel.

“Louis, dear? Is that you? Can you hear me?” a familiar voice called, as if from far away.

“H-Hello?” Louis replied, still confused.

“Louis, it’s Claude and Carol Pepper. How are you, dear? You’re on speaker,” the voice, who Louis now identified as Mrs. Pepper, replied.

Louis smiled and said, “I’m fine, thanks. How are you?”

“Lovely, just lovely,” Mr. Pepper boomed across the line, making Louis hold the phone a few inches from his ear.

“We wanted to be the first to tell you,” Mrs. Pepper continued, and was cut off.

“We are the first, I hope!” Mr. Pepper interjected.

“Hush, Claude,” Mrs. Pepper scolded fondly. “Louis, we wanted to be the first to tell you congratulations on a wonderful performance, since we won’t be at the next gala.”

“We’re in the Bahamas!” Claude exclaimed.

Louis chuckled and replied, “Sounds lovely. And thank you!”

“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Pepper cooed. “Now, a little bird told us you’ve got a project planned, and we think it’s just wonderful.”

“So admirable, Louis—helping the less fortunate,” Claude agreed.

“I…how?” Louis asked, but he was cut off.

“You are planning to open a ballet studio, right?” Mrs. Pepper asked.

“Yes, but…I never…”

“Excellent. Now, we wanted to be the first to throw our hats in the ring for you, Louis. If you’ll accept it, we’d love to offer our support for your studio,” Mr. Pepper explained.

“We won’t take no for an answer!” Mrs. Pepper trilled.

Louis was so shocked, he had to sit down for a moment. “That’s very generous, really, but who told you about my project?”

“I believe it was that lovely young man, what’s his name, Claude?”

“Neil, I think. No! Niall,” Mr. Pepper replied. “We’re going golfing next month.”

Louis’ head was spinning. “I don’t know what to say,” he confessed. Also, Niall? What the hell?

“Say yes, Louis, and let us help you get your studio up and running!” Mrs. Pepper urged.

“At least say you’ll consider it,” Mr. Pepper amended with a chuckle.

“We can chat again when we get back to London,” Mrs. Pepper continued. “But for now, just know you have our support, however you need it.”

“I’m so honored that you’d consider it,” Louis replied, feeling dizzy. “And I’d love to speak with you some more next time.”

“Oh, wonderful!” Mrs. Pepper exclaimed, and Louis heard the distinct sound of hands clapping.

“We’ll talk to you soon, Louis,” Mr. Pepper promised.

“I…thank you,” Louis said, amazed. “Enjoy your holiday!”

“Bye, Louis!” the Peppers said in unison, and then the line went dead.

Louis stared around the empty dance studio, his mind a mixture of wonder and confusion. How was this his life now? He didn’t know whether to be annoyed or elated at Niall’s involvement, again, in his affairs. But he knew one thing for sure, as he stood dizzily and dialed Marcel’s number with trembling hands: his luck had finally changed. 

*

Louis and Marcel celebrated that night over dinner—how could they not?—and daydreamed about the future. While Louis had no plans to retire right away, he knew there was no harm in planning ahead. There were many details to work out, such as location of the studio, instructors to hire, and students to recruit, but for now, one thing weighed on Louis and Marcel’s minds.

“What are you going to call it?” Marcel asked, pouring another glass of wine for Louis and then for himself. “The studio, I mean?”

“I don’t know,” Louis confessed. “All my ideas seem kind of cheesy.”

“I happen to like cheesy,” Marcel replied with a wink. “Let’s hear them.”

“Okay,” Louis said, recalling names he had thought up. “At first I was leaning towards ‘New Beginnings School of Dance,’ but then there’s also ‘The Dream Factory.’ I don’t know…is it too Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, do you think?”

Marcel laughed. “Unless you’re planning to turn kids into giant blueberries, then no.”

“What about ‘Inspiration Studios?’” Louis pondered, taking a sip of wine.

“Expressions Dance Studio?” Marcel said, trying out the sound of it aloud.

“That’s not bad,” Louis considered. “I keep going back to ‘New Beginnings,’ though.”

“Kind of like, it’s your chance to try something new, like dance, which will also give you a new perspective on life?” Marcel wondered aloud.

“Exactly!” Louis replied. “That’s the theme I’m going for.”

“You’re gonna do great; you know that, right?” Marcel asked.

Louis smiled. “Thanks to the Peppers.”

“And to Niall,” Marcel added, raising his glass in salute.

“To Niall,” Louis replied, raising his glass also. “Let’s meet up with him sometime this week. I want to know who else he’s been pitching my ideas to.”

“There’s no telling with Niall,” Marcel shrugged. “But yes, let’s. We can celebrate some more.”

“Do you think we’re celebrating too soon?” Louis wondered.

“Nope. I know you, Lou. You’re gonna have the best studio in London,” Marcel replied. “With the best teacher.”

“You really think I can do it?”

“I know you can,” Marcel replied confidently.

“Cheers to that,” Louis grinned, clinking his wine glass against Marcel’s. For a moment, Louis glimpsed the future: leading a class of eager dancers in exciting choreography; inspiring others the way Ms. Beverly had inspired him all those years ago; but most excitingly, coming home at the end of the day to Marcel. And for Louis, the future was bright.

*

The next two years were a happy blur for Louis, filled with dancing at the Royal Ballet Company, making plans for his studio, and spending time with Marcel. Marcel sold his lovely yet lonely hi-rise, and bought a new place with room to grow. When Louis moved in, he made Marcel promise not to go overboard spending money on amenities. His only concession was an idea of Marcel’s to turn one of the spare bedrooms into a dance studio. Marcel gave Louis the reins to design the space just how he liked it, and the result was a beautiful studio room tucked away from the hustle and bustle of their everyday lives.

Sometimes Louis used the studio to practice choreography, or just to decompress after a long day, but more often than not, Louis and Marcel used the room for another purpose. When times got stressful for Marcel at work, or when Louis needed a break from juggling all his responsibilities, they would sprawl on the sleek, hardwood floors in the studio, hand in hand, dreaming about the future. It was a future filled with promise: a flourishing dance studio, a home to call their own, and one day, a house full of children. Whether they ran around the house in ballet shoes or football boots, Louis didn’t mind. And whenever Marcel would fret that their children might turn out to be clumsy and awkward like he was, Louis would squeeze his hand and assure him that even if they were, they would be the most loved and cherished clumsy children the world had ever seen. And after all, Louis could teach Marcel to dance, so why would their children be any different?

When Louis retired as principal from the Royal Ballet at 28, it was only fitting that the position went to a dynamic, eager, hardworking dancer like Niall. He liked to joke that it had been his plan all along to take Louis’ place one day, and Louis would just smile fondly and shake his head.

Along with Niall and some other willing dancers from the company, Louis hosted a series of ballet workshops for the community to stir up interest for his future studio. Funded completely by donors known and anonymous, it was taking shape to be a worthy and worthwhile cause.

At the age of 29, Louis proudly opened New Beginnings to a class of seven dancers between the ages of 6 and 16. The studio’s popularity, as well as fresh, energizing atmosphere let to a steady stream of volunteer instructors, including one Olga, when her busy schedule allowed. She continued to impart words of wisdom and quotes whenever she visited, and Louis took to writing them down in the spiral notebook he used to jot down choreography ideas. On the first page of the notebook, now worn and full of ideas, was one quote that had struck Louis particularly.

_ Love recognizes no barriers. It jumps hurdles, leaps fences, penetrates walls to arrive at its destination full of hope. (Maya Angelou) _

There was that word again: hope. Louis had come full circle, from the teenage boy walking three miles to a dance studio in Doncaster, to the corps dancer, to principal, and finally to instructor. He had envisioned a better future, and seen it through.

No one was prouder of Louis than Marcel. While he kept his word and never contributed a penny to New Beginnings, he was the emotional support Louis needed to stay sane. He was still Louis’ first thought in the morning and last one at night, and the inspiration to keep going when times were tough. Marcel was at every dance recital the studio performed, sometimes backstage with Louis and sometimes sitting proudly front and center in the audience.

If you had asked Marcel five years ago what his life would be like today, he would never have dared to hope it would be so full of laughter and music and love. While his sense of style never changed, and his collection of glasses only grew, Marcel was not the same person he had been the first time he watched in awe as Louis danced at the Royal Opera House. He and Zayn continued to patronize the ballet, especially when suddenly it was Zayn who was dating the principal dancer. Niall and Zayn were not the oddest couple, certainly, but they were the most fun. And, according to Niall, the most dazzling. All around Marcel, life was flourishing, and there was always something to celebrate, whether it was Louis’ studio, Niall’s rise to dancing stardom, or Marcel and Zayn’s company breaking the Fortune 500. Now, when Marcel sat down at his piano bench to play, he wasn’t chasing away loneliness, but celebrating the life he loved. And that made all the difference.

*

It was a Michael Buble kind of night.

Watching a shy yet happy Marcel walk down the aisle scattered with rose petals in his favorite suit gave Louis butterflies in his stomach like never before. By the time they both said the vows they had prepared for each other, Louis and Marcel were crying. So were most of those in attendance, including Louis’ whole family, Niall and Zayn, and all the friends they had made over the years. Seeing two people so completely in love and committed to each other as Marcel and Louis were was truly inspiring for everyone attending. For Louis, it had been a long time coming. He knew he wanted to marry Marcel on their first date, when they had shared dinner at Marcel’s flat and talked about their dreams. He knew he wanted to marry Marcel every day since then, and furthermore, always would.

It was no surprise when Marcel selected a Michael Buble cover of an old Drifters song for their first dance at the wedding reception. Ever since Marcel stood backstage eagerly watching Louis dance at the Royal Opera House, it had been their inside joke: “Save the last dance for me.”

Now, as the music played and Marcel and Louis danced inside a circle of their loved ones on the dancefloor, Louis felt more loved and blessed than ever before. Every step he had taken since leaving home, whether on the dance floor or off, had led to this moment. Louis intended to cherish it.

Some may have been surprised to see Marcel leading Louis around the dance floor for once, but Louis was happier than he’d ever been. They had managed to sneak in a few ballroom lessons in their home studio, where Marcel thrived on the one-on-one instruction.

Now, Marcel pulled Louis a little closer and murmured in his ear, “What if I step on your feet?”

Louis laughed softly and pressed a kiss to Marcel’s lips in response. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be, love. So go for it.”

And maybe Marcel did step on Louis’ feet once or twice, throughout the dance. But it was still by far the best dance of Louis’ life.

_ So don’t forget who’s taking you home, _

_ And in whose arms you’re gonna be _

_ Darling, save the last dance for me. _

_ * _

End. 


End file.
